Redemption
by Jabyar
Summary: Once upon a time, he possessed that magic touch, that ability to control a situation, to get everyone out safely. (Takes place at beginning of Season 13).
1. Chapter 1

It's been four weeks. Twenty-eight days. Six hundred and seventy-two hours.

What the _hell _was he thinking?

Well, a part of him knows exactly what he was thinking: how could he keep doing this job when he had violated every principle he believed in? Most notably that very basic one about not murdering a victim?

He wonders how Olivia's doing in his absence. He had no idea he would miss her this much. Who would've figured? She'd annoyed the hell out of him daily, for so many years.

He didn't think at all about how she'd feel about all this. In retrospect, from her perspective, it was probably a bit of a bombshell. It just seemed so obvious at the time: so many cases had nearly brought him to the brink; at some point, one of them was bound to break him. He'd figured she would've understood that.

Apparently not. She's called at least twice a day since he quit; that is, since the moment when he estimates Cragen must have told her the news. How narcissistic of him, he now thinks ruefully, to picture the moment of their conversation. To picture how her face must have looked when she heard.

It's better for her this way anyway. She needs to move on. She was too dependent on him emotionally. She needs to stand on her own two feet. Tough love. Yeah! Maybe without him she'll actually have a shot at meeting someone. Someone who isn't frightened away by the icy glare of her territorial partner.

A crack of a smile eclipses the morose frown that's occupied real estate on his face for days. On second thought, he still stands by all of his menacing stares. Any guy who was intimidated by _that _certainly didn't deserve Olivia.

Her calls stopped yesterday.

She must've gotten busy. Caught a case.

Yeah. That's what he tells himself.

Hell, it's only been a month.

What the fuck, he thinks, suddenly indignant. She gives it the old college try and that's that? That's what twelve years is worth to her? He went through a lot, for Christsakes. He killed a child!

He lies back on the couch, stares at the dull ceiling, contemplates the world. His children aren't speaking to him these days. Neither is his ex-wife.

He glances at the clock. It's six o'clock, on the nose. It's now officially okay to have a beer. Anything earlier, he's decided, and it would mean he's on the road to a _problem._

He remembers how it felt in that prison, for three days in solitary. Those flashbacks have come more often since he quit; he knows it's not good for his mental health to spend day after day like this, alone in his little apartment, with nothing to do but wallow.

But dammit, Jenna Fox is dead! Not hurt, not traumatized, _dead._ He had every right to kill her; hell, an _obligation _to, but that's no excuse. Surely an _exceptional_ cop would've found another way. If Olivia had been in his position on the floor, she would've found a way. Of this there is no doubt in his mind.

Once upon a time, he possessed that magic touch, that ability to control a situation, to get everyone out safely.

Once upon a time, as in, before he let a child die in a bus terminal.

His reflexes, his judgment, had failed him then too.

It took him years to get over it, but nothing was ever the same.

Two kids dead. Because of a little bad judgment.

As he thinks about Jenna, about the life that no longer is, there's that familiar ice that pierces through his gut. He starts to shiver in his frayed wife-beater. He looks around, daring her ghost to notice. As he cries for her.

Again.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

When he wakes up, he's shivering fiercely. He stumbles over to the thermostat. Aha, the problem: the AC's set to 65 degrees. He doesn't know how that happened. Turning it up, he traipses to the fridge to grab another beer. The eleven o'clock news is on in two minutes. He doesn't really care about the news, but it's something to fill the silence. He's come to look forward to Janice Huff's soothing voice. She's cute, too.

He points the remote at the TV and, as psychically requested, it's the news. Midtown's going to be clogged tomorrow; President's in town. Gas prices are up. New York's got a new counterterrorism taskforce. Shooting in the Bronx. Liquor store robbery at gunpoint in Astoria. He smiles to himself: not a bit of this affects him. He likes that. He points the remote again, changes the channel to an old episode of Seinfeld, cutting off the pseudo-concerned voice of a field reporter, who's stuck in some godforsaken part of Staten Island, covering a possible hostage situation.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

He startles awake again; this time, it's two in the morning. He's slobbered all over his sofa cushion and he mats it down, noting that all the lights are still on and so is the TV. Man, depression really is the cure for insomnia, he thinks sardonically, as he picks up the remote. He blinks, thinking the news should have been over by now, but strangely it's not.

They're still all camped out in that random neighborhood in Staten Island, only now there's more hoopla. More NYPD personnel, a helicopter buzzing around. A yellow banner flowing down the bottom of the screen, underscoring the urgency of the situation.

This is serious, he thinks, smiling gleefully at the idea of _not _having to be one of the godforsaken freezing his ass off outside that godforsaken building at this godforsaken hour.

He expends a dozen more seconds scanning the crowd, morbidly fascinated, curious to see if he recognizes anyone.

And then he does.

It's Cragen.

He's about to give a press conference.

His old boss is flanked by Fin on one side, Munch on the other. To Munch's right is someone Elliot doesn't recognize; he's tall and thin, with shiny black hair. Fin, in turn, has an attractive, fit-looking blonde by his side.

_Olivia got out of this one tonight, _he thinks, grinning at the flash visual of his lovely ex-partner, cozy in her bed.

Then Cragen begins to explain the situation.

Something clicks.

And Elliot's so frantic to flee the apartment he forgets to turn off the TV, again.


	2. Chapter 2

It sucks, not having the lights and siren at his disposal. Not that this impedes him; he drives like a maniac the whole way anyway. As he hustles his way through a yellow light, he smirks to himself: nobody is chasing him.

Then he wipes the smirk right off his face, as if God himself is watching and judging. _No_, he thinks with panic. _Give me tickets! Fine me! Don't use my luck up on this, on me! _

It's not what it looked like, he keeps thinking. It's become a mantra, of sorts. _She's fine. She's probably at home sleeping. _

Of course she's not. Cragen would never have looked so worried. And she _never _turns her phone off.

Which he's tried calling about ten times since he's gotten into the car.

He crosses the Verrazano Bridge into Staten Island. This is the borough with which he's least familiar, but he has a general idea where he's going; the reporter indicated the neighborhood and the rest he's picked up on his police scanner, which he kept, probably illegally, after he left the force.

The scene is easy to find: there are two TV vans with giant, Hollywood-style spotlights dotting the landscape. Several yards away on a tiny, perpendicular street across from the park, is one squad car and three unmarked vans, all of which he assumes house the NYPD. It's otherwise a quiet, unassuming residential street, flanked on one side by a park and austere-looking playground and the other by several single-family dwellings and a sprawling, three-story red brick building that might be a school, or might be something else. It's this building that is most likely the subject of the hoopla, and where his partner is probably trapped.

He spots Cragen leaning against one of the vans. He jumps out of the car, leaving it taking up two spots in the school lot. He knows he's not going anywhere for a while. Let them tow it.

An intrepid young uni approaches him, clearly intent on shooing him away. "Sir, I'm sorry, you can't be here –"

Elliot growls at the poor kid. "I'm a detective with Manhattan SVU. Shield number 56824. Off duty, so I don't have the badge on me."

Cragen spins around, overhearing. "Elliot?"

"Captain! Please tell me she's – "

Cragen is stressed out, and lets it show. "Elliot, what the hell are you thinking? You can't be here. You're a civilian!"

Elliot stares incredulously at his old boss. "She's my partner."

Cragen sighs, looking Elliot up and down. He lobs an arm around his forlorn, hapless detective, pulling him aside into a huddle. He shuttles him into the unmarked van that's parked by the curb. "We want to show as little police presence as possible," he says grimly.

"Well don't they know we're out here?"

"It's more about what _kind _of cops they think are out here. They hate the Feds."

Elliot's eyebrows rise. "The Feds? What've they got to do with this?"

"Sir!" exclaims a young man, who's huddled over a laptop alongside Morales, "we think we got a shot at getting a visual!"

Elliot squints, recognizing the tall, lanky man from his appearance by Cragen's side at the news conference. Elliot doesn't need to see the guy's badge to know he's a detective.

Cragen clears his throat. "Elliot, this is Detective Nick Amaro, Olivia's new partner. Amaro, this is Elliot Stabler."

Amaro, for his part, does not try to engage with any sort of pleasantry beyond, "Nice to meet you." He knows this is not the time.

Elliot, in spite of himself, appreciates the gesture. The guy has the good sense not to say something sarcastic like, _So_ _this is the famous Stabler. _He looks Amaro up and down, not making any attempt to suppress the glare that spontaneously erupts across his face. He begrudgingly takes the hand offered to him. "Hi," he says coolly.

The introductions over, Elliot gets down to business. He turns back to Cragen. "So tell me what's going on."

Cragen talks rapidly, his voice husky. "She's been in there since three in the afternoon. We don't know what exactly triggered the standoff. From what we can tell everything was going fine till about four o'clock."

Elliot explodes. "Four o'clock! It's two-forty-five in the fucking morn-"

"Will you please calm down?"

"Don't tell me to fucking calm down! How could you not call me? Do me that courtesy? I mean, I know it's not procedure and all that bullshit, but come on –"

"Elliot." Cragen's eyes burn into him. "Shut up for a moment. This isn't about you." Cragen's gaze shifts; back up, towards the third floor. His brow crinkles.

Elliot follows his gaze, reads the expression like a book. "All right, all right, I'm sorry. Will you just… please, I'm going nuts here. Just tell me what's going on."

Cragen sighs, assessing Elliot. "Look. If you're going to be here, you keep it together, you got that? The last thing I need is Tucker harassing me again after everything that happened last spring. I'll let you stay as a courtesy, got it?"

It takes all that he has to push the anger down. He's not angry at Cragen anyway; he's angry at the situation. At the fact that Olivia still does this kind of thing, still has this dangerous job, still puts herself at risk, but without him by her side to protect her. At himself. For leaving her. For enabling her. "Okay, I'm sorry. So you said things were, quote, going fine. So this was planned? Was she undercover?"

"Yeah, she was."

"Do they know she's a cop then?"

"We don't think so."

"You don't _think_?" he snorts.

Cragen sighs. "To be honest, we don't know what the hell they know. There's been no communication. We think they might have Internet. Not sure about TV."

"So who, exactly, is 'they'?" He looks up at the three-story crumbling façade, silent against the bit of fog that swirls in the cool air. It's like a haunted mansion straight out of a fairytale. "What is this place?"

"It's a private school building. Totally off the radar. It's run by a guy named Nathan Gunther. There's at least one other male, a guy named Dwight; you know, these guys always have leaders-in-waiting. There are about half a dozen women, maybe more. We think they're all, quote, unquote, married to Gunther."

"A cult," Elliot states the obvious. He shifts from one foot to the other. They've dealt with these types of groups before.

Cragen nods. "Little nine year-old girl named Ruth just waltzes into the precinct one day, tells Olivia this vivid tale. Even Olivia's wondering if this kid's for real. Ruth claims she's living in some sort of communal center that dubs as a school, that her mom and five other women live there with their kids, that the women are all married to the same guy, Gunther. Says the guy's partner beats her mother and all the women every night, but that her mom thinks Gunther's God, and that she deserves to be punished. Classic battered wife, with a twist of Stockholm."

"How did Ruth make it from here to our precinct?"

"Apparently the little girl had the wherewithal to escape even though she's presumably as brainwashed as the other kids and has never been off the property. So she gets into a cab without a dime on her, asks the cabbie to bring her to a police station. Cabbie brings her to the three-five in Staten Island. Uni there offers to pay her fare, but cabbie declines."

"Nice guy."

"Yeah. Elderly Indian fellow who said he, quote, knew something was wrong. Thirty seconds of talking to the girl and they pack her up in the car and bring her to us."

"Not Staten Island SVU?"

Cragen's mouth curves upwards into a smile. "No."

"Why not?"

"Unclear. Olivia had a case with the three-five a few months ago and they loved her there. My theory is they're under the illusion they can poach her and so they want to stay in our good graces."

Elliot laughs. "Well she does have that effect on people. But Staten Island? _Really?_"

Cragen clears his throat. "Yeah."

"Are the kids being abused too?"

"Not according to Ruth, but obviously we had to investigate."

"So what's the status now?"

"We think there are about twenty-five kids, though bear in mind we're relying on the memory of a nine-year old. Twenty-five kids and six women, not counting Olivia. They think she's a social worker who came to check on the kids."

The blood drains from his face. "Twenty-five kids, oh God. She'll never… she won't come out till the last kid is safe."

Cragen nods morosely. "I know." He pauses pensively, places a hand on Elliot's shoulder. "That's how it should be."

Elliot swallows silently, the guilt over Jenna paralyzing him all over again. "So, uh, why was she posing as a social worker?" he manages finally.

"Well, the little girl wasn't alleging abuse of the _kids_. Technically, she'd just run away. We had to investigate, of course, but the case for removal of the children off the bat was shaky. _We _all knew what we were dealing with, but to get warrants, to _prove _it, in court…"

"So she was doing a bit of reconnaissance work."

"Exactly. It was the next best thing to posing as an actual recruit, which she wanted to do and I vetoed, by the way."

"Thank God," Elliot mutters under his breath.

Cragen hears. "Yeah, no kidding." He shakes his head, evidently replaying the fight he must have had with Olivia in his head.

Elliot chuckles at the sight.

Cragen continues. "The issue was, guys like this would've been too smart to let a cop in the door. A social worker was the next best thing. You know, authorized and required by law to investigate, but with not nearly the power or clout or resources of the NYPD."

"And female."

"Yeah."

Elliot shifts on his feet. "So what exactly went wrong?"

"We're not sure," Cragen admits. "She didn't check back in at the squad and I got worried."

"So maybe she's just –"

Cragen shakes his head firmly. "No. Something was wrong. Her cell was turned _off_. And her car's still parked about a block away. For what it's worth, we don't think this necessarily means her cover's been blown. It could just be that they got spooked for a different reason, put the place on lockdown."

"How did the press get wind of this?"

"We don't know. It might have been a leak at the three-five. Trust me, it's the first thing I'm going to look into when this is all over."

Elliot swallows. "Do we, uh, do we know how she's doing?"

Cragen shakes his head guiltily. "Not really. The little girl told us all the classrooms have cameras in them, which we figure are closed-circuit. We've got Morales and some tech guy from the FBI trying to hack in. Maybe we'll get lucky and be able to see for ourselves."

Elliot takes a deep breath, finally voices the question that's been plaguing him since he arrived. "Are they… are they rapists?"

Cragen looks him up and down, as if assessing Elliot's psychological preparedness for a candid answer. "Well, depends how you interpret the women's consent. Ruth didn't want to talk about it, but Olivia thought Gunther had probably raped all the women at one time or another. We don't know much about Dwight, the younger one."

Something occurs to him. "Captain, how come Staten Island isn't heading this up?"

Cragen nods, as if he's been waiting all along for Elliot to pose the obvious. A small smile forms on his otherwise anxious face. "It's their jurisdiction. But they dropped it after a week for lack of evidence. Olivia was infuriated."

Elliot understands. "So she insisted on continuing the investigation on her own."

Cragen nods grimly, the regret etched on his face. "With my blessing."

Elliot lets a beat pass, studies his former boss's face. "You're really worried, aren't you?"

The question isn't meant to challenge or accuse. Cragen looks him right in the eye. "Yeah, I am."


	3. Chapter 3

They've tried communicating via loudspeaker but so far there's been no response from Gunther or Dwight. It's vexing; guys like this are unpredictable as it is, but with no sense whatsoever of their plans the situation is even more dangerous and it's nearly impossible to form a strategy. They assume Gunther knows he's surrounded by law enforcement, but so far he's shown no indication of being aware or of caring, nor of what precipitated the lockdown in the first place. The Feds refuse to consider a raid until they know what they're dealing with. After all these years, they're still gun-shy when it comes to cults. And unfortunately for Cragen and his team, the Feds' power trumps theirs.

Meantime, it's been over an hour and Elliot's going nuts. Olivia's been undercover dozens of times since he's known her, and often found herself in equally precarious spots, but this time is different.

He's spent the past thirty minutes trying to put his finger on why.

He tells himself it's because this time he has no progress report, no information to settle that queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

But is that really it?

The thought flashes through his head before he has a chance to censor it.

_You don't trust her._

Come again? That's ridiculous, he tells himself.

But he knows it's true. He tries to put his finger on why. It's surely not because she's not competent. It's because…

_She thinks she's got nothing to lose. _

The insight chills him to the bone.

Last year, she lost the one child who was almost hers. Then, without warning, the partnership that meant the world to her, crumbled before her eyes.

And now, countless little children are in danger.

For Olivia, this completes the trifecta. It's the perfect storm.

Still, he considers, would she actually _consciously_ behave less cautiously?

_Damn straight she would._

Just by going in that building alone, she proved that she would. Of course she would. Because for years they've told her she shouldn't put herself at risk, but then they've always obliged her when she did. They paid lip service.

No wonder she still thinks this is the only way to prove herself.

Because he knows the feeling, too. Of gnawing, relentless guilt. Of inadequacy. Of letting a child down. He's let so many children down, over the years.

The only difference between him and her, he supposes, is that in the face of failure, _his_ instinct was to quit. Hers was to sacrifice herself. It always is.

From the van, Morales pokes his head outside. "We got a visual!"

The debate in Elliot's head is instantly abandoned. Here's something real and tangible, a concrete development. It's a waste of energy, to keep psychoanalyzing his former partner. There'll be plenty of time for therapy later, he thinks sardonically. Better to concentrate on something practical.

Cragen puts both hands in the air, Moses-like. "All right, everyone calm down. Let's get inside the mobile unit. Nobody tells the press anything. Remember, the building's wired for Internet, and we have to assume they've got it."

They huddle around the tiny laptop screen. The picture is grainy and black and white, but it's a clear shot of a classroom, cleared of desks. There are about two dozen children scattered about the room, fast asleep on the floor.

At the far wall is Olivia. She is slouched on the floor, her legs crossed, one ankle chained to the radiator. Even though it's pushing four in the morning, she's wide awake, of course.

Elliot puts his face in his hands, trying to absorb the relief coursing through him, to regain his composure: his partner looks bored and tired, but otherwise unharmed.

Elliot senses a presence behind him.

"So far, it doesn't look like her cover's been blown," Fin asserts.

Elliot's eyes widen at the sight of his former colleague. They exchange a perfunctory handshake and top it off with a tentative back-pat. "Hey man," Elliot says sheepishly, mindful of the rocky history the two share.

Fin accepts the greeting at face value, evidently aware of the stress Elliot is experiencing. As he pulls away, he looks Elliot in the eye, the sympathy etched in his face. "It'll be okay, man. We'll get her out."

"Thanks, man."

"If it's any consolation, they probably won't hurt her even if they do find out she's a cop," pipes up a pipsqueak of a man, who stands to Cragen's left. Elliot's never seen him before and he resents anyone talking about Olivia as though she's just another case.

"Who the fuck are you?" Elliot growls.

"Elliot!" Cragen scolds. "This is Doctor Philips. He's a psychiatrist specializing in criminal behavior."

"Doctor Huang, Part Deux," Elliot says sarcastically. Now that he knows who Philips is, however, he latches on to the optimism of the man's words. "You think they wouldn't hurt her?"

The man shrugs. "No reason to. They like women they can program, who'll buy into their game, become a believer. They like vulnerable women. A cop wouldn't make sense."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

The room she's in is about the size of a classroom, though there are no desks. She's with twenty-five kids, none of whom is pubescent, which Olivia notes with suspicion. From what she can tell, six women are all of these children's mothers. Olivia strongly suspects that Gunther is the father of all of them. She's seen this sort of thing before.

She's still not certain what went wrong. One minute she was interviewing Catherine and Agnes, two of the women, about the teaching policies of the school. She kept the questions open-ended, suspecting Gunther was somehow listening in; she certainly did not want the women getting beaten on account of her. She'd met Gunther earlier, and, knowing he sensed her hostility, she tried to keep it professional, pretend to be a real social worker bound by a code of ethics to treat him and his group fairly, give them the benefit of the doubt.

At four o'clock, Dwight, the sidekick, appeared in the doorway, dismissed Catherine and Agnes.

Thirty seconds later, Olivia found herself herded into the classroom and chained by the ankle to the radiator.

She's been in this spot for what must be pushing twelve hours now.

She really has to pee.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

It's nearing dawn, and Elliot is getting antsy, standing out here in the cold, helpless while his partner is held captive in a room full of innocent children. He wonders if she knows they're there, watching. He hopes so. He wants her to know he's there for her, watching over her, that no matter how incommunicado he's been lately, that when she truly needs him, he'll always be there for her.

Of course, if _she _knows he's here, then her captives know too. He's not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing. In this moment he wishes telepathy were possible, that all the sugary-sweet stories about people with strong bonds channeling one another, were true. He desperately wants to comfort her.

Because he sees in her face something he knows the others don't: fear.

_They wouldn't hurt a cop._

Doctor Philips's words have become like a mantra in his head. He clings to them like they're the gospel truth. The man spent years in school, studying human behavior. Elliot's always been suspicious of psychiatrists, but surely their professional insights are worth _something._ Not that he's one to believe in something only when it's convenient… but… hell yeah, to hell with hypocrisy! Dr. Philips's right! He _needs _to be right!

All at once, there's a change: a young man enters the classroom bearing what looks to be food. He distributes it to the children, who are slowly awakening, but he ignores Olivia.

As he's about to leave, Olivia says something to him, and he turns to face her. He crouches down in front of her as though he's going to give her food too.

Then he raises his hand high above his head and backhands her square across the face. Her head whips to the right as she takes the blow. A second later, blood spurts from her nose.

There's a collective gasp from the stunned team that stands outside.

Cragen winces visibly. Nick shakes his head solemnly, looks down.

But Elliot drops to the floor of the van, squatting, head in hands, breathing deeply.

"Captain, we've gotta go in," he wheezes.

"We can't."

He stands back up. "She's suffering in there! We've got to help her – "

"Elliot, we _can't._"

Furious, he musters to his feet, faces his old boss. "Why the hell not?"

Cragen nods his head toward the window of the van, where they can just make out the arrival across the street of the canine unit.

Elliot follows his gaze. "Bomb sniffers?" The blood drains from his face. "The building's rigged?"

Cragen crinkles his brow, shifts on his feet in indecision. "We don't know."

"Well the Feds must have some basis to suspect it."

Cragen's silent.

Elliot furrows his brows, furious. "What aren't you telling me?" he demands.

Cragen sighs. "In his former life, Gunther was a member of the Knights of God, out in rural Montana."

"Another cult?"

"No, it's some sort of militia, they think."

"Oh God."

Cragen lays a palm over Elliot's shoulder. "We'll get her out. It'll be okay," he says quietly.

Elliot looks up at his former boss, studying the man's caring brown eyes. Then his eyes flit back to the screen, where his helpless partner is wiping the blood from her face with the back of her sleeve. "But in what condition?" he asks quietly.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

She's been hit a lot harder over the years, but this blow took her completely by surprise, the pain exploding across her face and culminating in a gushing nose. Dwight is obviously a volatile character; all she did was ask for a bit of food. And he punched her in the face for that.

What horrified her more is that the children don't seem fazed by the presence of a stranger chained to the radiator. What's more, not one of them so much as flinched when he hit her. She's beginning to suspect they witness, if not endure, such mistreatment regularly, that Ruth didn't tell her the whole story. Even more disturbing, she thinks the children always sleep here on the dusty floor of this classroom, pillowless and with three blankets and one sheet amongst them; they're not behaving as though anything is terribly out of the ordinary.

As she clutches her throbbing face in her palm, Olivia reviews what she knows about these people. Catherine, one of the women she interviewed, is in her late twenties, though she claims her true life began ten years ago, when she met Gunther. Agnes, the other, is younger, about twenty. She has two daughters, Carrie and Cynthia, both of whom are sprawled out in the classroom here with Olivia. Her take on Agnes is that the woman is more intelligent, more questioning. She believes in Gunther for the most part, but is likely the more malleable of the two. Olivia doesn't know where either woman is now; she figures the women must have their own separate sleeping quarters. Whatever tiny kernels of doubt Olivia has tried to read into their facial expressions, one thing is certain: they're not turning on Gunther on a dime. They believe in him, in his methods, his superiority, his power over them. They believe he's God, and that they're lucky to be chosen to be with him. It's exasperating, frankly, to talk to women like this.

She's terribly curious as to what's going on outside. Earlier she thought she heard the sound of a voice on what might have been a loudspeaker, but the windows are made of reinforced glass and she can't be sure what she heard. Besides, that was hours ago and now she's questioning if she heard anything in the first place. For some reason she's been assuming Cragen's gathered the cavalry outside, but maybe nobody has noticed her absence after all. Surely they would've stormed in and rescued her by now.

It's possible, she realizes with a chill. She doesn't actually know for a fact that she's a hostage. It's possible she's just a garden-variety kidnap victim, not even officially missing. Because she and Cragen don't always touch base at the end of the day, and Nick doesn't know her routine yet. Elliot's not around anymore to check up on her, to proactively inquire why she never checked back in at the squad.

_Elliot. _

Even after all these months, she still misses him terribly, _viscerally_, every single day. She shudders at the thought of him, outside, knowing about this. Once upon a time he would have protested till kingdom come this little assignment she concocted for herself. She thinks on some subconscious level she did this deliberately. To see if she could do her job without him.

And it's not like she has a twelve-year old foster son at home who needs her.

She might as well save _these_ children. Children are children. They all need saving.

Olivia's stomach growls noisily. They fed the children about ten hours ago, around what she figured was dinnertime, and then again a few minutes ago, but she herself has gotten nothing. That's fine, of course; the children are more important. But it does give her insight into the sort of characters she's dealing with, if they feel no compunction about depriving her of basic sustenance. Which is odd: as far as she knows, her cover hasn't been blown.

And yet, in her brief meeting with Gunther yesterday, he struck her as rather buffoonish. Egotistical and full of himself, but ultimately just a garden-variety cult-leader-wannabe. He talked in very flowery language about sinners and angels and children and purity. All she could think throughout the interview was, _it's amazing that people buy into this nonsense._

Her stomach growls again. She's about eight feet away from Stevie's banana, which it's clear he has no intention of eating. She eyes it lustfully. She doesn't want to ask him to bring it to her; Dwight's withholding of food is obviously not accidental and she can't risk the men punishing him for helping her. There's a camera on the far side of the room, pointing right at her. She has to assume it's operational, that she's being watched.

She thinks of herself as a hardy person, but damn, that banana looks good.

She thinks about Ruth, now safe in the custody of ACS. She can't imagine what courage it must have taken the little girl to escape. Gunther has them all on a tight leash, and she imagines he's quite frightening to people over whom he wields power; he's the kind of guy whose approval insecure women would naturally crave, but whose wrath, when it comes, is probably biting.

He's a little like her mother. Charismatic and superficially charming and bright and imposing. Someone people perpetually try to impress, to win over. Her students would literally beam when her mother paid even the slightest of compliments to them, and when she had them over for wine at the apartment, Olivia would watch as they hedged every statement with an acknowledgment of the opposite point of view, lest her mother disagree and make them feel stupid.

Olivia knows. She spent her whole childhood emulating those students' approval-garnering techniques.

The only difference was, they rarely worked for her.


	4. Chapter 4

Nick's partners have never been guys he would die for. Yes, he got along with all of them. Yes, he always responsibly had their backs. Yes, he cared about their welfare. But this partnership between Elliot and Olivia, such as it seems to have been, is unlike anything he's ever seen before. He truly doesn't know what to make of it.

Because the way Elliot's hanging on every bit of news, on every image of Olivia in that room, on every microexpression of discomfort or pain, he can see there's way more there than partnership.

He knows they've never slept together. He has a sixth sense about that sort of thing. Which means they've probably never admitted their feelings to each other. Or to themselves.

He knows Olivia's been devastated by Elliot's departure. It's been written on her face since the moment he met her. In his second week, Fin pulled him aside, told him the story. She's not usually this moody or depressed, he explained.

Nick secretly wonders if Elliot's the reason she's never been married, never developed any sort of personal life.

Despite the hostility and moroseness in those first few weeks, he liked her immediately. He understands the sort of havoc loss can wreak on a person's center of gravity. He misses his wife terribly; when she first deployed, he was barely functional for weeks, acting like a terror to those around him. He can see plainly that Olivia is an extraordinary person. That she is kind, and compassionate, not to mention an utterly competent cop.

Nick eyes Elliot warily. Ever since Dwight hit Olivia, the look of sheer terror on Elliot's face has confirmed what Nick's suspected all along.

Sensing the former detective needs someone to talk to, Nick ventures, "She's important to you, isn't she."

"Yeah, she is," Elliot responds curtly. He's not in the mood for a heart-to-heart.

Nick sees Elliot's not willing to open up. He tries a different tack. "Hey man, I'm not trying to piss you off. I've only worked with her a few months, but I could see right away what kind of person she is."

Elliot's eyes never leave that camera. It's his lifeline. "Yeah." Olivia's eyes are downcast; it's like Elliot's trying to channel her with his mind to look up at the camera, make eye contact, show him she's okay.

"Have you talked to her since you left?" Nick asks.

Elliot whips his head to the right. "What?"

"Have you talked to her?" Nick repeats.

Elliot narrows his eyes, gearing for a fight. "How the fuck is that your business?"

Refusing to be intimidated, Nick shrugs. "Just a question."

"She's fine without me," Elliot says. "She's the strongest person I know."

"Okay," Nick replies evenly. He counts down.

Three. Two. One.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Elliot demands, on cue.

"Nothing," Nick says innocently, his eyes again skirting the camera. Dwight hasn't made another appearance in the room and the blood has stopped flowing from Olivia's nose. She's okay for now.

"No, seriously, it sounds like you got something to say to me."

"All right, I do," he asserts. "She's _not _fine without you. Now, I'm not saying she's not a perfectly fine, professional detective without you, I'm not giving you _that _much credit. But for a thirteen-year veteran, she's acted like a rookie."

Elliot takes a step towards Amaro, rage cooking inside him. Only _he _gets to criticize Olivia. "What do you mean?"

"Reckless," Nick says matter-of-factly.

"Olivia is _not _reckless!" he fumes.

"Well then how did she end up a hostage, all alone, at the hands of two nutcases?"

Elliot's disarmed by Amaro's keen observation. "It's not recklessness," he insists, hoping his voice conveys more conviction than he feels. "When she sees a victim in need, she has to act. It's her nature."

"Fine," Nick says evenly. "But when she gets out of this, if you care about her as much as I think you do, you'll show her she's got more to live for than just you. Otherwise, she'll just keep pulling stunts like this till she winds up in the mor-"

Elliot grabs Amaro's collar. "You listen to me. You say one more disrespectful thing –"

Amaro puts his palms up. "Hey, man, I'm sorry. I have the utmost respect for Olivia. Anyone who can survive in this unit for this many years is a very special person."

In spite of himself, Elliot's immediately mollified. He releases Amaro. "Yeah."

Amaro nods, sees that his words have pacified the distraught man. "So why did you leave, exactly?"

Elliot has to admit, the guy's got balls. But rather than prime himself for another fight, the question further deflates him. He looks at his feet, kicks a bit of dirt away. "I shot a teenage girl."

"So?"

The fury instantly returns. "So, I _killed _her! What do you mean, 'so'?"

Nick shrugs. "Word on the street is it was a clean shoot."

"It was, but I mean, she was a victim's daughter."

"You mean, she was a cute white female. And let me guess, you've got a teenaged daughter whom she reminded you of."

Under any other circumstance Nick would be sporting a shiner right about now, but Elliot's guilt is still so profound he's paralyzed by the insight. Tranquilly, he considers Amaro's statement at face value. "Yeah."

Amaro is shocked by the docility of the response. He's obviously hit a nerve. "She was no different from any other troubled kid who's in a mental state and takes a gun and shoots up a police station."

Elliot sighs. It's not quite so simple, he knows, but he doesn't feel like arguing. He's physically drained from the night, and all his remaining energy is devoted to worrying about Olivia. "I guess that's true."

"Look, man, I'm not trying to downplay any of it, but seems to me that's a reason to take time off, take a vacation, not retire forever."

He looks up at Amaro, shakes his head sadly. "It wasn't really that."

"Then what was it?"

Elliot hesitates. This is truly none of Amaro's business, but there's something about the man that makes Elliot trust him. "Olivia lost respect for me."

Amaro's quick with a retort. "No she didn't."

"She did. I could see it in her eyes, right after it happened. I was trying to revive the girl and I looked up and made eye contact with her across the room. She was… she was horrified by what I'd done. I couldn't… I couldn't live with that."

"So you threw your whole career away because of a look in Olivia's eyes?"

"I didn't _throw… _ I just… you don't understand."

"Look, man, I'm not trying to judge. My wife's in Iraq. There isn't a day goes by I don't wonder what she's going through, how she's dealing with it, if she's had to kill anyone. She's surrounded by men, some of whom I wonder don't have feelings for her. These jobs aren't normal jobs. None of us here leads a normal life. These combat jobs, they fuck with our emotions, our identities." He lets a beat pass. "But I gotta tell you something, man: you're in love with her."

"No I'm not!"

"You can deny it all you want, but it's as plain as the sky is blue. I don't know what your personal situation is, but if you care at all about being happy, and about her, you'll acknowledge it to yourself, and to her. Because here's the thing: she's just as in love with you."

x-x-x-x-x

"Captain!" Fin shouts. "Morales has got something to show us!"

Morales motions for the group to huddle around his area, where he's been hard at work on his laptop. "They're way more sophisticated than we thought. Records show six months ago Gunther purchased FBI-grade facial recognition software from a supplier in Moldova."

Cragen nods grimly. "So the second Olivia walked through that door she was toast."

Elliot states the obvious. "So they do know who she is."

"Well, the technology's not perfect, so not a hundred percent," Morales says hopefully. His eyes skirt the three pairs of eyes staring at him skeptically. "But yeah, probably," he concedes.

Just as Elliot starts to digest this turn of events, to remind himself of Dr. Philips' staunch conviction that they wouldn't hurt a cop, Munch arrives in a huff. "Captain, we got a bigger problem."

Elliot looks up, raises his eyebrows. He's so exhausted he's having trouble generating alarm. Which causes immediate guilt. He has to actively remind himself that his facial expressions, or lack thereof, have no bearing on Olivia's chances of rescue. He can look panicked or relaxed, but none of it ultimately matters.

"How can it possibly get bigger?" Cragen asks wearily.

"These guys, they're not the head honchos. They're part of a larger game."

"What are you talking about?"

"We finally finished the forensic audit of their accounts. The big puzzle's been who's funding them, because they seem utterly self-sufficient, but there's no apparent source of income. The accountant traced the money to an account offshore, which was funded by a shell corporation out of the Cayman Islands, which in turn was being funded by another non-profit, which, from everything we can tell, is also a front for a terrorist organization."

Cragen's eyes widen. "Islamic?"

Munch raises an eyebrow. "No, but I would've very much enjoyed the irony."

"Munch!"

Munch sighs. "Domestic. It's some sort of anti-government, white power militia, out in Montana. They're popping up all over the country, but this one's unique because it supports these little pseudo-Christian cults. They identify a charismatic personality who's got all the makings of a leader, train him in munitions and weaponry, and then set him loose and let him run his own show. They supply him with infrastructure and a network and weapons; he supplies them with a cut of the money he's fleeced from his followers' life savings."

"So the place really may be rigged with explosives."

Munch shrugs. "Maybe. But what the Fibbies are really worried about now is the possibility that something larger is being planned. Little Runaway Ruthie opened Pandora's Box."

Cragen glances at the group of agents yards away, parked outside their own van. "So what's the Fibbies' plan?"

"They want to regroup."

"Regroup? _That's _their plan? And what about Olivia and those kids?"

For once, Elliot keeps his mouth shut. As upset as he is by this turn of events, it's nice to see someone else expend the energy required to lose their temper. He raises the corner of his mouth in a half-smile; a small token of solidarity with his former captain.

A second later, he wipes it off his face.

Because Olivia's in terrible trouble.

x-x-x-x-x

She thinks she's been here for roughly twenty-four hours, based on the number of meals they've served the children, who continue to amuse themselves without registering any sort of discomfort or agitation.

She herself has still been given nothing whatsoever to eat or drink, the only upside to which is that she's been able to hold her bladder. Based on how much her face still throbs from the unexpected blow she took earlier, she hasn't wanted to find out how Dwight might react if she were to ask to go to the bathroom.

All she knows is that this is surely some kind of test of her fortitude; they have to know she'd be famished and dying to relieve herself by now.

In the meantime, to pass the time and to get her mind off her growling stomach, she's tried to bond with the children, to ask them questions, but they don't seem inclined to talk to her and she doesn't want to upset them. Oddly, they seem content to play on the floor with the handful of toys they've got. Only little Carrie has said a word to her: her name, and it was done with great trepidation. Olivia realized quite quickly that their reticence is not accidental; they've clearly been coached not to talk to an outsider, or threatened. If Gunther truly cared about keeping her from interacting with them, he wouldn't have put her in the same room with them.

Even so, Olivia's not used to getting the silent treatment from children. It's unnerving.

Suddenly, Dwight appears, towering over her. "Get up!"

With her ankle still chained to the radiator and her head spinning from hunger, she musters awkwardly to her feet, trying to obey the order expeditiously. He's obviously volatile; no reason to piss him off. She wonders what's changed.

He points a gun at her head and reaches down and unchains her. He then grabs her elbow and marches her forwards towards the door.

The commotion causes little Carrie to look up from what she's doing. Olivia puts her index finger to her mouth. "It's okay," she mouths, making eye contact with the child.

Dwight leads her down the hallway. Abruptly, they stop in front of a door and he pushes her inside. It's a single-stall bathroom.

"Go!" he barks, shoving her towards the toilet.

Her eyes widen as she realizes he means for her to go in front of him. "C-can I… can I have some privacy?" she asks.

He sighs. "Fine," he snaps, and turns his back on her.

She'd meant for him to actually leave the room entirely, which she thought he might do given this bathroom is windowless and inland, and has only one door, which he can easily guard from the outside. But she'll take what she can get. No sense getting herself beaten up over this.

The second she's done and barely a second after she's able to pull her jeans back up over her hips, he spins around and marches her outside. He pushes her back down the hallway, and finally into another room at the end of the hall. The room is small and contains several chairs and an altar-like structure.

"Sit," he commands, pushing her onto a vinyl waiting-room seat. She feels like she's been sent to the principal's office.

After several nerve-wracking minutes, Gunther enters, Agnes and Catherine by his side, both decked out in long white robes, flanking him like angels. She met Gunther earlier, back when everything was going swimmingly. He was excessively charming and superficially compassionate. She could see immediately how poorly-adjusted, emotionally damaged women might be drawn to him.

With one ambiguous flick of his hand, Gunther motions for the two women to kneel on either side of him. Each obediently drops to her knees, staring catatonically ahead. Dwight continues to loiter near Olivia, watching the scene intently.

Olivia tries to catch Agnes' eye, but she senses the woman is too frightened to break protocol. Catherine, in turn, maintains her stoic expression. Olivia studies Catherine carefully. Catherine really does look like an angel, she thinks, with her flowing blond hair and pale white skin, which is practically translucent against the robe. She sees the resemblance to Ruth.

Presently Gunther takes a step and crouches in front of Olivia. He reaches forward and grasps her chin in his palm. "You're not who you said you were," he says sternly, but without any hint of anger or surprise. Olivia sees he's in perfect control.

His blue eyes are enormous and glassy; they pierce through her as she tentatively meets his gaze. For a second, his eyes remind her of Harris's and her chin inadvertently quivers in his fingers. She's been over Sealview for a while now, but in this moment, terror overtakes her and her whole body wants to shake.

Through sheer will, she manages to keep her expression stoic. If Gunther senses her fear, she's certain he'll take advantage of it.

"Yes I am," she replies, poker-faced. Inside, her stomach has plummeted to the floor. She's frightened.

"Detective Olivia Benson," he quotes derisively. "Badge number 44013."

Catherine's eyes flicker. It takes a mere microsecond, and then Catherine is back to her zombie-like default state. But Olivia catches it. Catherine expressed a reaction to hearing Olivia is a cop.

But it wasn't one of relief, or surprise, or confusion, or admiration. It was disapproval. Catherine is a true believer.

Olivia's gut seizes in panic, but she manages to keep her face neutral.

_It's_ _okay, _she reassures herself. _They'd be crazy to hurt a cop. _

Gunther rises to his feet, nods his head at Dwight.

Dwight, in turn, steps forward and grasps Olivia by her elbow, pulling her back to her feet. He leads her to the strange altar-like structure at the front of the room. He takes her wrists, raises them above her head. Without warning, she is cuffed to the horizontal metal beam a foot above her head. He stands before her and produces a knife, showing it to her. Her eyes widen in fear. Before she has a chance to react further, her shirt is expertly shorn away.

She shivers in her bra, terrified. "No," she whispers. She turns her head to look to Catherine and Agnes, for a sign as to what's next. But they're useless; both continue to stare ahead, their eyes glazed.

Gunther ignores her plea. "Wives, what do we do to liars?" He sounds like a kindergarten teacher.

"Liars must be punished," the two women drone in unison.

"And how are liars punished?"

"With the cane."

x-x-x-x-x-

**Dear readers: Due to certain upcoming graphic scenes, this story will change ratings to 'M' after this chapter.**


	5. Chapter 5

He can't breathe.

His mind is so paralyzed in fear his lungs won't function; they can't find air.

They took her away, out of the room.

He tries to find explanations in his head that make this development benign.

He can't.

Without warning, he pivots 180 degrees on his feet, and vomits on the pavement.

Munch witnesses it and grabs a water bottle from the makeshift canteen they've brought. He lays a hand on Elliot's back. "Here you go, man," he says quietly.

Elliot coughs and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He accepts the water gratefully. "Thank you."

He looks Munch in the eye. For a second, the two former co-workers hold each other's gazes.

And then Munch does something he's never once done in twelve years of working with Elliot.

He pulls him into a hug.

x-x-x-x-x-x-

She knows she's expected to be stoic in the face of this torment. It's her own fault; she's played the role of tough, hardy cop for so long she doesn't know how to be anyone or anything else.

But she's never experienced physical pain quite like this and she doesn't know what to do with it. It's ripping through her, tearing her apart. She doesn't know how much more of it she can take.

What's more, she's terrified that after this brutal session with the cane, they're going to rape her. Gunther talks with the sort of euphemistic language that suggests it's his end game, while Dwight just plain leers at her. A part of her wonders why they haven't raped her already and is hopeful that maybe she's read them wrong. It's a good sign that they haven't stripped her completely, that she's been allowed to keep on her bra and jeans. Maybe the rape of a non-believer is not part of their modus operandi.

Another part of her knows darn well men like this always find a loophole in their own ideology when it suits them. She knows the fact that she hasn't been raped yet is no indication that she won't be. She knows it's just that Gunther is disciplined. He'll do it when its impact on her psyche is at its most potent.

She tries to focus on something else while they flog her. She thinks about what Elliot's doing right now. She's pretty sure it's sometime in the late afternoon or early evening. Maybe rush hour. Maybe Kathy's got him on Eli's carpool duty. Or maybe he's just hanging around.

She desperately wants to see him. She wants to lean on him, for support. She misses his overprotectiveness.

The fact is, with him out of her life, there's nobody to care. She wishes she would have told him when she had a chance: she appreciated him. For all her pride in her independence, she appreciated that he cared about her wellbeing.

The cane makes a swishing sound as it sails through the air and cracks down on her back for the fifth time. This time the blow lands on her lower back, right on the thin layer of skin that covers her spine.

"Ahh!" she shrieks. The pain is so intense, she doesn't care how shrill or out of control she sounds.

Just before the whipping started, she actually had the temerity to believe she would be able to take this beating without giving them the satisfaction of crying out. She lasted exactly one lash without screaming.

Her eyes cast vertically downwards, she sees flecks of her own blood, crimson against the white tiles of the otherwise spic and span floor. She has a flash of Catherine on her hands and knees later, scrubbing.

"Please," she moans. "Please stop. Please, I can't take anymore."

She's terribly ashamed of herself for begging, not least because she knows it won't accomplish anything. But it's a primal, visceral reflex. Nothing her rational mind tells her does any good in the face of such vicious pain.

Gunther's hot breath seers her naked shoulder blade from behind. His voice is taunting. "Do you repent, sinner?"

This is a turning point; if she gives him the satisfaction of saying what he wants to hear, all is lost.

On the other hand, she rationalizes, whatever she says to this man will just be empty words. Nobody who matters will ever know she said them.

As she teeters in indecision, she hears him take a step back.

And before she has a chance to change her mind, her back explodes in excruciating pain all over again.

Hot tears burn down her cheeks as she struggles to endure the wave of agony.

"Do you repent?"

He doesn't give her a chance to answer before slamming the cane down on her tender flesh yet again.

"Yes! Yes, I repent!" she cries desperately. She clenches her eyes shut, trying to process the most recent lash.

"Say it."

"W-what?"

He smashes the cane back down on her flesh, this time just above her tailbone.

"Ahhh!" she chokes, spittle running down her chin. Tears and sweat blanket her face. All her cop-like bravado is gone. She can't take anymore. She _can't. _

"_Say _it," Gunther hisses. "I'm a lying, filthy whore who doesn't deserve to be amongst God's angels."

"I'm a –" she starts, but the last blow has left her panting and she can't catch her breath.

The next one lands higher, near her shoulder blade. Her knees buckle and she sags against the metal pole, her cuffed wrists bearing all of her weight.

"I'm a f-filthy wh-whore who…" She can't remember the rest of the script. A stream of drool stretches from her lips. A drop spills to the floor, smack into the tiny pool of her blood.

Her eyelids start to close. He strikes her again, but she's too incoherent to process it. She wonders if this means she's dead.

"You're a dirty, worthless whore," Gunther snarls. "You must be purified."

_Worthless, _she thinks. Her eyes zero in again on the blood that stains the otherwise gleaming white tiles. Her DNA is there now, marking it. Her dirty, worthless DNA.

"_I thought that if I raised you, you wouldn't be tainted, but I was wrong! You'll never be anything! You're worthless!"_

It's the last thing that goes through her head before she passes out.

x-x-x-x-x-x-

They keep trying to reassure him. They tell him things like, even if they know who she is, they won't hurt her. They won't rape her. Guys like them only pick on the weak and vulnerable. They wouldn't try to indoctrinate a non-believer, especially a cop. That's not their M.O.

None of it works at all.

Because he's not a rational cop anymore.

He's just a regular guy in love with a woman who's in the hands of a misogynist who likes to masquerade as God. Just the _chance _that she's being harmed is enough to make his heart stop, to make him want to crawl into a hole and curl up in the fetal position and shut everyone and everything out as he prays the hardest he's ever prayed that the reality he knows in his gut to be true, isn't.

x-x-x-x-x-x-

Now she gets it. True toughness is quite a different thing from bravado.

Only minutes seem to have elapsed since she blacked out. The vicious whipping has left her too weak to walk on her own and Catherine and Agnes have to help her. Somehow her wrists are now cuffed behind her back, rubbing against an open wound on her lower back, just above her buttocks. They drag her by her elbows back down the dimly-lit hallway, but not to where the children are. They stop in front of a different door. Catherine produces a key from the front pocket of her smock-like dress and unlocks it. It's a tiny, cave-like protrusion of a room; probably a converted utility closet. With her wrists still bound behind her topless back, they shove her inside the windowless, airless space.

"Repent," Catherine directs icily. "Repent, and you shall go free."

"Wait – " Olivia protests weakly, but Catherine has already pulled the heavy door shut behind her.

And Olivia is left sprawled on the cold concrete floor in the pitch darkness, her raw back exposed and dripping.


	6. Chapter 6

It feels like she's been in here for days, but in the darkness and radio silence her estimation skills are largely useless.

She's not sure how much longer she can go without food and water.

Not to mention without hearing a sound, or seeing a bit of light.

She doesn't know if she can make it. She's never in her life worried about her own wellbeing, but she's also never been mistreated quite this cruelly either.

Correction. She has.

But at least she had Fin then. Right up until that last, terrifying second, she had hope.

The specter of being raped hovers over her, petrifies her. She can't get her mind to let go of it. A few hours ago the prospect gripped her consciousness so vividly, she peed in her pants.

She feels so alone. She's spent her whole life alone, she thinks, but this is starkly different. This is biting. All these years, at the back of her mind, there was her partner, who, in spite of her insecurities, she always believed cared about her. It wasn't love, but it was _something. _

Now she's questioning whether he ever felt anything, whether it wasn't all a figment of her imagination: the overprotectiveness, the subtle hints that he considered her to be more than just a partner. Maybe that was just his way of doing his job thoroughly, of having her back. Maybe that's how he naturally would have been with any female partner. He loved Kathy, after all. He produced five children with her. Nobody's ever wanted to father Olivia's children. That says something.

She wonders if anyone's actively trying to get her out of here. A part of her knows they must be, but in her starved head she's also a little paranoid: what if it's really true that no one cares?

Suddenly, the door eases open and Gunther appears, his imposing profile gleaming against the dim lighting of the hallway. Olivia squints; even the weak, sallow rays hurt her unaccustomed eyes.

"Do you repent?" he demands.

"Yes! Yes I do!"

"Very well. You shall get water. When you prove you are worthy, you shall get more."

He thrusts a bottle on the floor. With her hands still bound behind her, she advances awkwardly one crawl-step ahead, towards the tiny plastic object, which holds about six ounces of liquid and sports a nipple. It's a baby bottle, she realizes.

And before she has a chance to respond, she's plunged back into darkness.

x-x-x-x-x-x-

Nick lets out a giant yawn.

Elliot glares at him. He can't believe Cragen let this joker be her partner. She deserves better than this hotshot from Narcotics, who apparently can't handle an all-nighter. "Stay awake, Amaro."

"Man, I haven't seen my kid in days," Nick grumbles.

Elliot shoots him a look of death. "Neither have I."

Nick glances at him. "Well bully for you."

Elliot flinches at the unexpectedly rude response, his primal instincts telling him to throttle the guy. But his own exhaustion is overwhelming, and the most he can muster is a cock of the head accompanied by a glare. He takes the moment to study Olivia's new partner. Most people would be intimidated by Elliot, but Amaro clearly isn't. In a weird way, he likes the guy. He respects his even-keelness. Maybe this is exactly the kind of partner Olivia needs. "How old's your kid?"

Amaro eyes Elliot. The guy was set to punch him, he's convinced. And yet he didn't. It's something. "Four. Yours?"

Elliot chuckles. "Well, I got five. The youngest's four too."

Nick nods. "They say the cutest things at that age."

"Yeah," he says distantly. He blinks at a flash memory, tears instantly surging to his eyes. "Olivia actually delivered him. There was a car crash with my wife. Olivia almost died."

Nick is careful to keep the smirk to himself. _It's all about Olivia,_ he thinks. "And you say you're not in love with her," he mumbles under his breath.

Elliot doesn't hear.

x-x-x-x-x-x-

There's a tiny part of her brain that's still thinking rationally, that's reminding her of the effects of prolonged hunger on a person's judgment. So she _knows_ she's not necessarily thinking straight but she's adamant nonetheless that the conclusion she's come to in the last ten minutes of pondering the subject is sound: nobody cares. Nobody wants to help her. Because she doesn't _deserve_ help. Because she's not a regular human being like the others. She's the daughter of a drunk and a rapist and these men seem to have caught on she's worthless. They must've sensed it. Or maybe they did a little research on the Internet, discovered the secret of her existence. Regardless, there are thousands of others out there who need help. Why the hell should she, of all people, suck up resources? Who the hell is she?

_I am worthless. _

The words Gunther had demanded from her still echo in her head.

Worthless. Just like the little voice has always told her. Therapy-shmerapy. Her mother was right: genes don't lie. She knows the work she's done in her career is important, but lots of people do important things in their careers. Are all cancer researchers saints? Of course not. So what that she's gotten a few rapists off the streets? If she hadn't done it, somebody else in her squad would have. And the proof's in the pudding: when all's been said and done, people have always left her. They've seen who she is, and they've run. Hell, even Elliot finally gave up on her. He was her last holdout. When they took Calvin away, he didn't even flinch. She could see it in his eyes: He'd thought it was for the best. That was, best for _Calvin._

Gunther comes in again, looms over her.

She looks up at him. "Please!" she begs. "Please can I have some food?"

He crouches in front of her like she's a cute animal at his feet. "When you have fully repented."

"But –"

And he's gone again.

And she knows she now must face the cruelest punishment of all: more hours with nothing more than her tainted thoughts to keep her company.

On the cold concrete, she curls up in a ball and bursts into tears.

x-x-x-x-x-x-

Now he understands what it means to lose his mind. In the twenty-four hours since she's disappeared from the camera, he's lived through a hell he never thought possible, even in the most frightening of situations he faced with her by his side.

Even when she was in Sealview.

Because Sealview was all about _irrational_ worry. About the one-in-a-million chance _everything_ would go wrong. At the back of his mind, he had known Fin had her back. He'd known his partner was strong.

And when she returned and he saw what had happened to her, he was both relieved and devastated. Because it was quite clear from her behavior that something had shattered her. But it was also clear that whatever had happened, she would be resilient enough to handle it. And she had.

But things are different this time.

Not only because this time he's aware of the feelings he has for her. They're so much more visceral, so much stronger. Not only because there are no distractions in his life this time, like an infant at home or a marriage so fragile as to require constant, relentless attention.

But because _this_ is not like Sealview.

Because these men are not bound by even the pretense of the law.

Cragen and the others refuse to come out and say it, but Elliot knows they're all thinking it:

She's probably being tortured in there.

x-x-x-x-x-x-

She's been on edge for the past hour, sensing his arrival at any second. There have been numerous false alarms, the cumulative impact of which on her nerves has been such that her adrenaline has been on overdrive, her muscles perpetually primed. She's physically exhausted, but so wired her heart won't stop pounding long enough for her to calm down.

And so when the iron door finally does start to creak open, she practically jumps out of her skin. "I repent!" she exclaims, before he has a chance to ask.

To hell with pride. _Anything_ to get out of the darkness, the silence. She takes a second to catch a breath after her abrupt declaration, notices that this time Dwight is by Gunther's side like a bodyguard.

For his part, Dwight raises his eyebrows with amusement.

Gunther's mouth curves into a curious grin. "For what?" he asks innocently.

She thinks for a second. "For… for being a… a filthy whore. Please, I was not pure before, but now I am." She has no idea what she's talking about, but this is the sort of flowery rhetoric he seems to respond to. She still can't discern if he believes his own shtick, or if he's just a sadistic predator. Likely both, she muses.

"Very well," Gunther acknowledges. He snaps his fingers, and Dwight spins on his heels and leaves the room, returning thirty seconds later with a single slice of plain white bread. He hands it to Gunther, who tears a miniscule piece off. Gunther crouches down in front of Olivia and holds it to her mouth.

Without hands at her disposal, she arches her neck forwards and grabs hold of the bread with her teeth. She chews gratefully, completely unconcerned with how humiliating this is. "Thank you," she musters, after she's swallowed.

"The penitent shall not address the master," he admonishes sternly. "This is something she must learn." He feeds her a second bite, and then tosses the remaining slice to the corner of the room. She hastily inches there on her sore knees, the effort made utterly arduous without the use of her hands.

Gunther laughs, watching the awkward display. Just as she's about to arch her neck towards the scrap, she hears his voice and freezes. She looks up at him, deer in the headlights.

"Uh-uh-uh," he says, tick-tocking an index finger at her. "Have you been given permission to have the rest?"

She gapes at him, unsure if he expects an actual answer.

His expression turns steely. "_Have_ you?"

"No," she whispers.

"No what?"

She swallows. "No, I… I haven't been given permission."

Gunther snaps his fingers and Dwight once again disappears into the hallway. This time, he reappears with a chair, which he thrusts into the middle of the room.

Without tearing his gaze from Olivia, Gunther addresses his henchman. "She must learn discipline."

Dwight nods, a knowing grin stretched across his thin face. He takes a step towards Olivia, who's still frozen on her knees in the corner of her dank, windowless cell. He shows her the long, shiny instrument, which he slaps against his palm with glee.

Her eyes widen in horror. "No," she whimpers, seeing the glint of a metal rod. "No, please, not that…"

"The penitent must learn discipline," Dwight repeats robotically.

She shrinks back from him. "No, please…"

"Bend over," he commands.


	7. Chapter 7

He's decided he's going in.

She's been gone from the camera for three full days and the Feds still can't devise a plan. The issue, as he sees it, is that their attention is focused on the bigger picture, on catching the so-called big fish. They won't share their strategy, of course; they're too damned territorial and don't give a shit that his partner of a dozen years is a hostage. Worse, he's gotten the distinct sense they're starting to make contingency plans. As in, what happens if they _can't _get everyone out alive? Damage control. It's a bad sign.

So fuck it. Fuck the Feds. He can't let her keep going through the God-knows-what he's sure is being done to her. He'll accept the consequences. Even if the whole damn building explodes, at least it'll end her suffering.

He spends the entire afternoon plotting his plan, puzzling over how to get past their blockade undetected. He has to do it all himself; his ex-colleagues are of course just as anxious to get Olivia out, but not at the expense of their careers. Or maybe they haven't pictured, as he has, just what might be happening to her in there. Maybe they're in denial. Maybe they're blocking it out. A convenient way to justify their impotence. While she suffers.

Or maybe they don't want to risk the lives of all those little children.

_God dammit, _he thinks, as the visual of twenty-five miniature faces comes to view again. It's all well and good to distance himself, desensitize himself from the risk he's decided to take, to turn his mind off to the reality of what it means to jeopardize the lives of twenty-five children. To pretend the risk is so miniscule, so ill-defined, the consequences simply hadn't entered his calculus. To pretend he isn't thinking straight, because he's blinded by love.

He _is _in love.

But he's not blinded. They're _children_.

At the hands of men who might not hesitate to blow them to bits if provoked.

He can't be responsible for the death of another child.

His shoulders slump as he gazes up, helplessly at the building.

He can't go in.

Not even for her.

x-x-x-x-x-x-

She's been an atheist her whole life, but in the past few hours one thought has gripped her mind and she hasn't been able to let it go: what if she's wrong? So much of the world, after all, is so _convinced_ of God's existence. So many of those people are well educated, more so than she.

What if _she's _in the wrong? What if what she's going through now is just the beginning of her punishment, of what she's set to endure for all of eternity? What if none of this has anything to do with her mother, her father, but rather with the choices _she's _made?

What if Elliot's been right all along? His religion has been around for over two thousand years; who the hell is she to decide such a venerable, resilient faith is a sham? And if that faith really has pegged God correctly, then so many of her choices have been against God's will. _She, _a mere _human being_, a _mortal_, has had the arrogance, the audacity, to challenge the almighty. How _dare _she? What if God's got a running log of her various transgressions over the years? Like the scores of one-night stands because she was feeling sorry for herself? Or all the ardent pontification to vulnerable others about the importance of artificially suppressing the creation of children? Who knows how many children are not in the world today because of her?

So if there is a God, she can't possibly be in his good graces.

No wonder God sent Gunther to punish her.

This is the least she deserves.

x-x-x-x-x-x-

He thinks he might have lost his faith in God.

In all those years of witnessing what terrible things one human being can do to another, he always saw it through the framework of his faith.

And then out of nowhere last night, the idea gripped him, and he can't let it go: how is it possible so many human beings are so convinced of so many different versions of God? _Convinced. A hundred percent sure. _And yet they can't _all _be right. Which must mean there are an awful lot of very smart people in the world who are dead-wrong about God. So who's to say he's got God pegged? Worse, what if _nobody's _right?

Which brought him to the logical, frightening conclusion:

What if prayer is futile? What if there _is _no higher plan, no grand goal for goodness to prevail?

_What if he's really the only one out there to protect her?_

x-x-x-x-x-x-

She's become frightened of the sound of her own voice. It used to be a normal, average, feminine voice, she believes, but somehow in the abyss of silence to which she's been subjected, she's convinced her voice has become distorted, shrill. Menacing. She doesn't like it. So she's been trying to shush it. Which has presented a new confusion: she could have sworn she hadn't been speaking aloud in the first place.

Then there have been the visions. She's adamant they're not hallucinations, that they're real events, playing out in front of her. It makes perfect sense; in the radio silence and pitch-darkness, certain memories are bound to come alive. And sometimes, she reasons, it _is _possible for those things to be real.

Somewhere in the back of her head she senses her logic is flawed, but she's too starved to question it.

She has no concept of time. Of how slowly or quickly it passes, or of whether it passes at all.

She thinks there's a chance she's already dead.

Because she's been hearing her mother's voice, and her mother, she knows, is dead.

Her mother's been telling her things about who she is. About _why_ she is.

_Sometimes I think about how my life would've been if I hadn't had you._

Her mother had a beguilingly feminine-sounding voice, Olivia recalls. Even when her words were biting. It was one of those off-putting, incongruous things about her mother Olivia took for granted. For years, she secretly wondered if she, too, frightened children when she spoke to them.

_Do you ever think about that, Olivia? What it would be like to not exist?_

When they come to punish her, it's not Gunther or Dwight, but rather her mother, who beats her. And when she thanks Gunther for teaching her an important lesson, she believes he really is Serena simply masquerading as another, helping her to understand her lot. It's reasonable, after all, that she be made to earn her worthiness. That's what everyone's been trying to teach her all her life.

There are tiny snippets of time when she's able to recognize she's descending into madness. When she's able to give herself a pep talk about keeping her wits about her, about having faith that this is not how it's supposed to be. Such speeches are then followed by the attempt to recall all the people her squad has rescued over the years who were also imperfect, flawed. Sinful. Sometimes she's able to concentrate on the train of thought long enough to reason that if her squad tried to help those people, then there's a good chance they also want to help her.

But as her brain struggles to pass hour after hour, she just looks forward to those rare moments when Gunther opens the door, breaks the silence.

Pays attention to her.

x-x-x-x-x-x-

He thinks he's slept about ten hours in five days. He didn't know such a thing was humanly possible.

Lying on the makeshift cot inside the trailer, where he's been ordered to go under the threat of handcuffs, his eyes shut automatically. As he drifts off against his will, he tries to channel her. Tries to enter her mind, give her comfort. He's well aware he's never believed in this sort of thing before and that it's awfully convenient for him to suddenly change his tune, but he's desperate for something to cling to, some way of processing what hell she must be going through, and to take some of the burden off her shoulders.

But when he tries to summon an image of her against the backdrop of his mind, all he sees is nothingness.


	8. Chapter 8

She thinks she's finally worthy. It's been a long time coming, she knows, and idly she wonders how long it took Catherine to learn. She thinks Catherine was probably a quicker study, because she was purer to begin with. She's a little jealous of Catherine. She wants Gunther to see her as he sees Catherine.

Once upon a time Olivia didn't care about such things, but now she understands. Life is nothing without God. And God demands purity, virtue. And purity and virtue require discipline.

Olivia thinks she's ready now.

She just needs Gunther to know.

And so when he comes to her, later, she shows him. She remains kneeling in the darkness, passive, her eyes downcast. She doesn't address him. Her kneecaps ache against the concrete and the position is made more difficult to maintain with her hands bound behind her back, but she does it, because she's finally learned discipline.

She instantly knows he's sensed a change in her disposition. He hesitates, shifting from one foot to the other, assessing the situation. He holds up a piece of plain white bread. "The master has food for the penitent. Does she want it?"

She thinks for a second, because it's quite certainly a trick question. The last time Gunther came to see her, she finally gave in and begged for a shirt because it's perpetually freezing in here and she thought there was a chance her toplessness might have been an oversight. It turned out this was meant to be a test of her discipline, and she'd failed. As punishment, she was put on a fast. And so she knows that if she accepts the bread now, she will be punished even more severely if she shows she hasn't learned her lesson.

"I have been put on a fast," she says.

"For what reason?"

She knows what she's supposed to say. "As punishment. To learn discipline. To learn my bodily wants are nothing compared to God's."

He sneers. "Very well. Then you shall continue to learn."

He turns on his heels and leaves the room, takes the bread with him.

Her heart flutters in relief. He's pleased with her progress. She's done well.

As the heavy door slams shut, her stomach growls in agony. She harshly shushes it, petrified Gunther will hear.

x-x-x-x-x-x-

Later, he comes to offer her water. He shows her the baby bottle he's brought it in. "Does the penitent want any?"

The withholding of water is not part of her punishment, but nonetheless it's up to him to decide if she deserves it. "Only if the master deems me worthy," she replies, in the monotone she's learned to adopt. She doesn't dare look up at him. She learned that lesson during his fourth visit.

"She is worthy of water like a dog," he snarls. "But is she worthy of God?"

"I am!" she exclaims excitedly. "Please, let me prove it to you!"

"Very well," Gunther replies quietly. He crouches in front of her and brings the bottle to her mouth and nods for her to have as much as she likes.

She takes in the water gratefully, careful not to drink too greedily, lest Gunther conclude she believes she is _entitled_ to such a gift, to decide _when_ she's worthy.

He reaches out and touches her hair, strokes it as she sips.

She looks up curiously. He's never been this gentle with her.

"You have never borne a child," he says to her. It's a statement, not a question.

Done with the water, she sits back on her heels, her eyes glued to her thighs. "This is true," she agrees. She takes measured breaths, waiting to understand what this next test is about. She doesn't dare look up at him.

"Has God prevented such a thing?" he inquires.

"No, I have," she says honestly. She knows there's no point in trying to sugarcoat it. He'll see right through it. She knows she has to face the truth.

She senses by the way she hears him shift that she has disappointed him. "So you have suppressed God's will."

She starts to tremble, knowing what's coming. "No, I –"

He interrupts her. "You deny it?"

She knows she's ensnared. Better to confess now, than to be caught in another lie. "No, I don't deny it," she whispers solemnly.

"So because of your selfishness, God's children have been prevented from existing."

Tentatively, she looks up at him and quivers. It's never been put in such a way before. Still, she tries to redeem herself. Somewhere at the back of her mind she knows her past life wasn't _all_ bad. "I-I've tried to rescue children. I help them." The words sound feeble out loud. Even _she _doesn't believe them.

Because _his_ words resonate.

_God's children. _

_Prevented._

All this time, she could have had what she's always wanted. What _God_ was trying to give her.

But she resisted.

Because it wasn't the right time, the right partner. Because the child wouldn't have fared well by her.

She sees, now, where she's erred. She cared more about her own needs than about God's. About the vanity of being a good parent, of having a well-adjusted child.

But it should never have been her choice. It was God's choice. And God wants his people to be fruitful. He wanted her to have the children her body was meant to create. Children are God's creatures, not humans'. Humans are mere vessels; they are not entitled to decide who should exist, and who should not. God gave _her _to her mother. A damaged, illegitimate child. And yet he brought her into the world, gave her life.

Out of selfishness, she has gone against God, repeatedly. More of God's creatures would exist, if not for her.

"I-I should have had children," she stammers, a tremor permeating her voice. "It was against God's will and I should be punished for that."

There's silence as he processes her words.

She braces herself, waiting to hear what he deems appropriate for her. She knows that whatever punishment Gunther chooses for her, it will be harsh. But she will have deserved it. Idly, she wonders if there's any punishment fitting enough for her sins.

"You have done well," he tells her finally.

She blinks, careful not to look up at him. Inside, her heart beats with relief and confusion. She doesn't understand why, but she's passed his test. He's not going to instruct Dwight to beat her.

He crouches down to her level and gently grasps her elbow, helping her to her feet. She teeters, her leg muscles unaccustomed to standing, her head dizzy with hunger. He starts to lead her forward, towards the door.

And for the first time in days, she sees the light.


	9. Chapter 9

According to Dr. Philips, very few women are ever successfully deprogrammed.

Elliot can't help but chuckle ruefully when he hears this uncalled-for factoid: for a psychiatrist, the man sure isn't very good at reading body language.

But Elliot's not truly worried Olivia will succumb to their twisted ideology, of course.

He's worried about what sort of hell she'll endure as they experiment with her, assess _whether _she's programmable.

As the days have worn on, his coworkers have repeatedly fed him rhetoric meant to reassure: _she's tough. She's strong. She'll be okay. _

He's politely nodded at all of it. Always responding with the same bland agreement: _I know. _

As if by disagreeing, he's somehow betraying her. Jinxing her.

But there's something he knows about her that the others don't know, and it's what nags at him most: beyond the tough exterior, she's also human.

x-x-x-x-x

She wonders how she ever came to be worthy of Gunther, of this second chance. Because whatever good she's done, nothing can make up for all the children she's murdered, by virtue of her selfishness. For the past several hours, she's been fixated on all the wondrous combinations of egg and sperm that might have been. There are pictures in her mind, of the myriad of faces; of talents and quirks and foibles and beauty. Of the sweet little boy with curly hair and glasses who loves science fiction and playing first base and, for some reason, spinach. Of the little girl with pigtails and freckles and asthma, who is left-handed and good in math and tallest in her class, and who loves art and musical theater and jump rope, but hates dolls and sleepovers and spaghetti.

God would have surely granted her children, if only she had let him. But instead she showed him contempt, choosing to suppress his will. Every impure period she ever had was one uniquely extraordinary human miracle who was mercilessly stamped out of existence.

Which is surely why she lost the one child she had thought was meant to be her redemption.

It had been a puzzle to her for months, why they took him away, why she had to be so unlucky. And yet now it makes perfect sense. It had nothing to do with luck. Losing Calvin was God's way of reminding her.

But Gunther has shown her there's a second chance, that by submitting to his regimen of discipline, she can earn God's forgiveness.

She still gets punished regularly, of course. _True_ worthiness does not come easy; it must be earned. Sometimes in between lashes, she's made to chant out loud how thankful she is for Gunther's faith she _can _be taught. _Can _be purified, redeemed.

And so she's steadfast in her determination to do right by him. Doing right by him is doing right by God.

x-x-x-x-x

The news vans have moved on to other stories, which is both a relief and rather unnerving. It's a blessing, because they're now able to converse and congregate without worrying an intrepid reporter will overhear, somehow jeopardize Olivia.

It's a curse, because now Elliot's starting to lose hope. If the _reporters _are bored, what's he to believe of his partner's chances of a miraculous rescue?

There's no objective data to suggest Olivia isn't alive. That's what Cragen keeps telling him, every time he starts to succumb to the bleakness.

She's been in there a full week now, but it's been six days since they last saw her on the closed-screen monitor. Two days ago he stealthily tried to get around the barrier the Feds have constructed to prevent rogue detectives like himself from triggering their booby traps. Cragen had to deliver quite a song and dance to convince the Feds not to throw Elliot in jail then and there. So he's been warned. Still, he's resumed his earlier determination to get in there undetected. He has to know if she's ok. He _has_ to help her.

He's terrified she's already been raped. He's done a million things in his mind to prepare himself for such an eventuality: pictured how she'll look, how he'll stay with her, talk her through the immediate humiliations of the exam, the statements; composed a shortlist of therapists he trusts enough to counsel her; rehearsed pep talks chock full of platitudes about how he'll be there for her to help her through it, and how none of it was her fault.

What he hasn't prepared himself for is that they won't find her alive. He knows, intellectually, that he is doing himself a disservice with such denial, but he can't contemplate it right now. He just can't. Because even with five beautiful children to keep him going, he quite simply can't contemplate life without Olivia.

Cragen is approaching him, his expression dire.

"What's changed?" Elliot demands.

"Fibbys think it's time for a raid."

"A raid? What? What about the explosives?"

"They don't think there are any."

Elliot's livid. "What! They don't _think_? And why the fuck couldn't they have figured this out –"

"Montana State Police have Warren Calldrens in custody," Cragen interrupts. "He's the number two guy in the Knights of God. He's talking."

Elliot instantly halts his tantrum. "What's he saying?"

"That Gunther is the real deal. They recruited him because he's charismatic, a great leader. He made them a shitload of money. They just didn't expect him to really believe his own schtick."

"So what's that got to do with anything?"

"Calldrens thinks they're planning some sort of mass suicide."

x-x-x-x-x

Out of nowhere, Dwight barges into the room. Although she's startled, she's too weak to flinch. Her most recent punishment was less than an hour ago and they used the electric shocks on her this time. She's been lying in the fetal position whimpering softly ever since they brought her back.

He stalks over to the heap she forms on the concrete floor, and harshly grabs her by the elbow, hauling her to her feet.

Bright, glaring light accosts her unadjusted eyes as he marches her down the hallway, into yet another, larger, room. She sags against him, barely able to walk on her own.

x-x-x-x-x

"She's back!" cries Amaro, staring at the screen.

Elliot, Cragen, Munch and Fin crowd around him, hovering in fascination as Olivia, clad in a long, flowing white skirt and a mismatched black bra, is brought into the room, her wrists bound behind her back. The video's too grainy for them to fully discern her condition, but she's slow and hunched over and possibly limping.

Elliot winces at the sight of his formerly proud partner. He takes deep breaths to force himself not to lose it in public, to not pummel all the men around the camera who are seeing her like this, half-naked and so, so vulnerable.

He just repeats to himself the bit of information that is most critical:

She's alive.

x-x-x-x-x

She's in some sort of large, airy room and something is touching her neck. She's not sure how that's happening. Maybe Dwight has a second set of hands, because she could've sworn his hands were on her waist. It's possible, she reasons. God can give man extraordinary powers when he deems it necessary. Maybe this is one of those situations. Amidst the fog that hovers over her brain, she considers that such a thing is possible.

"You stand," he commands.

"W-what?" she asks, not understanding.

"You stand, or you die."

This is the only explanation he provides.

He leaves her now, in the room, teetering on her feet.

Wondering when Gunther will come to see her.

x-x-x-x-x

They all stare in abject horror at the picture before them. The noose Dwight has slipped around Olivia's neck has about an inch of slack; with her wrists tied behind her back, if she dares pass out, she'll hang herself.

That, Elliot supposes, is the point. They're testing her strength, her fortitude, her will.

They know they're surrounded, but they're making it her fault if she dies.

Normally Elliot would have confidence in his partner to withstand this. Normally the worry he would feel would be _requisite_ worry, because he'd remind himself how much of a fighter she is.

But after so many days of God-knows-what sort of abuse, he doesn't know if she can stay on her feet.

Worse, he's not sure she's lucid enough to understand what'll happen if she doesn't.


	10. Chapter 10

Somewhere in the haze that is her current state of mind she understands that she's supposed to remain standing. It's another punishment, she figures, though this time she can't remember being reprimanded. It doesn't matter; she has to do this, she _wants _to do this, because she can't bear to disappoint Gunther. She doesn't want him to stop coming to see her.

Even though she's taught her mind how to pass hours of idleness while her body endures physical pain and discomfort, she's nonetheless out of breath as her exhausted limbs protest their new position. She shifts on her feet, trying to find a tolerable position.

Minutes pass, and she breathes heavily, wanting so badly to be back on her knees on the concrete. It would at least help with the dizziness.

As she teeters, enervated and weak, Elliot pops into her mind. She chastises herself ruthlessly for this blatant transgression, terrified Gunther will find out, lose all faith in her. She swore all thoughts of her ex-partner off days ago when she came to understand he wasn't along her path to God.

But the more she resists, the more impossible it is to banish him from her mind. Elliot, she thinks, would have no trouble staying on his feet right now. He'd huff and puff a little, but ultimately he'd do what's required of him. Her former partner is much, much stronger than she is.

_He has so many children,_ she thinks wistfully. He's always tried to do right by God. He's a much better person than she is.

It occurs to her to wonder, now, if Elliot ever existed. If he was some sort of mirage, an image of perfection dangled in front of her as a test. If, perhaps, the victims were a test too. Of her ability to decipher right from wrong, lies from truth, societal law from God's. Maybe her entire career was a figment of her warped, formerly impure, imagination.

Maybe _this_ is the only thing that's ever been real.

x-x-x-x-x-x

They've been debating for an hour the central question:

Is it mass suicide or escape? Blueprints from the building's original design in 1902 show underground tunnels, but nobody's been able to dig up records to prove those tunnels still exist. Moreover, what's their aim in sticking a noose around Olivia's neck, right in front of a camera they must surely guess has been hacked into?

For the first time in days, there's some real hope. The infrared detection equipment, courtesy of the FBI, has finally confirmed there are no high-grade explosives in the building. Elliot's chomping at the bit to get in there, but everyone agrees: before they invade, they first need to stealthily get the children out. Gunther has an arsenal of weapons at his disposal and none of them doubts he would use it against the children if cornered. Once the children are out of the equation, Olivia and the other women are next.

It's not unreasonable for Olivia to come second, Elliot knows, and it's how she would want it. But they're taking too long to devise a strategy, seemingly unperturbed by the ticking time bomb that is his unwell partner's ability to remain conscious. He just needs to get to her.

Elliot's frustrated. All week the Feds have been behind the eight-ball, unable to gain the upper hand, yet arrogant in their confidence their plan will work. Surely Gunther realizes something is amiss, that the Feds are planning something. Otherwise, why would he change his tack with Olivia? Elliot grimaces. If Gunther's aim is to distract the authorities by dangling a dying cop in front of them, then it's working.

"All clear!" shouts Iverson, the ATF guy who's made a nuisance of himself for two days.

Elliot and Cragen are made to step back as a team of Feds with riot gear enters the building first.

They hold their breath, waiting countless, agonizing minutes. Elliot's eyes are glued to Olivia. She's still standing, but her breathing is obviously labored; she is clearly not well. He's got just enough self-restraint to resist running in there against the Feds' orders. No matter how desperate he is to help her, he can't ever put another child at risk. Even if he could ever forgive himself, which he knows he couldn't, Olivia would never forgive him. In any event, he would never inflict such guilt upon Olivia. He knows what that kind of guilt feels like. It's hell.

Ten minutes elapse. Twelve. Fourteen.

He passes the agonizing time by keeping his gaze trained squarely on her. _Come on, dear. Stay with me, stay with me, sweetheart. It'll all be over soon. I'm here for you._

And then, a change. From the side entrance, accompanied by three agents, little children start to emerge.

They shuffle out soundlessly, in a perfect single-file line, eyes cast straight ahead. Apparently they've been trained, probably through years of abuse, how not to make a peep.

x-x-x-x-x-x

They don't know where Gunther and Dwight might be. They're not sure if they've escaped via tunnels, or are hiding somewhere in the building.

They don't care. That's a job for the Feds, who are currently storming the building alongside Elliot and his former boss.

All he cares about is Olivia. He wants Gunther to suffer but such satisfaction will be meaningless if he can't save her.

He knows Cragen feels the same way, which is a welcomed comfort. After so many days of dealing with a bunch of bureaucrats whose priority is busting the bad guy rather than saving the victim, it's nice to feel a little camaraderie, a little kinship, a little bit of human connectedness with someone else who cares.

He and Cragen sprint through the darkened hallway. The terror that they're too late grips him vividly, and he has to force his muscles to propel him forward.

There was no way to tell which room the video feed was coming from, so they have no idea what floor she's on, let alone what room.

They bash open the doors of every room they find down the long corridor; about fifteen per floor. The electricity has been cut and their only source of light is their flashlights, supplemented by the faint, late-afternoon rays of sun that penetrate the grimy windows at the far end of the corridor.

"Olivia!" Elliot calls. His voice reverberates off the blank, empty walls.

"Olivia!" Cragen echoes. "Can you hear us!"

On other floors, Elliot hears Munch and Fin and Amaro crying out her name too.

They continue on, concentrating on the slightest sounds they can detect for clues.

"We need a better system!" Elliot pants, shoving open another door.

"No time to devise one!" Cragen rejoins, from the doorway of another empty classroom.

"She doesn't have this kind of ti –" Elliot halts in his tracks.

And there she is.

On the opposite side of the classroom, thirty feet away. Her eyes are closed and she's hunched over, breathing laboriously. There's about an inch of slack in the rope.

"Olivia!"

Elliot charges ahead, just as her knees buckle.


	11. Chapter 11

He always thought it was such a cliché, the idea of things happening in slow motion. It was the fantastical tool of filmmakers, the language of novelists, the rhetoric of alarmists, of exaggerators, of those who refuse to acknowledge cold reality. Because in his experience, time has always passed rather predictably: victims live if he gets to them in time; they die if he doesn't. There's no ambiguity. No miracles.

But in a heartbeat, he has changed his tune.

Because if time doesn't somehow find a way to slow itself down, he's surely going to lose her.

He's twelve feet away, and he can see her, descending vertically like a crumbling statue.

"Olivia!"

Ten feet.

The noose is tightening around her windpipe. Absurdly, he fixates on the rope burn it's going to cause around the smooth column of her neck.

Six feet.

Four.

_Who're you kidding? You're not going to make it._

From somewhere behind him Cragen gasps, obviously seeing what he's seeing.

He's not going to get there in time. She's already crumpling into herself and there's no slack left in the rope.

He watches in helpless horror as her face reacts to the constriction in her airway.

He's still too far away. His legs simply won't get him to her in time.

"Olivia! No!" he screams uselessly. "Stand up! Stay on your feet!"

He can see quite plainly she doesn't hear him. Or she's too weak to follow his instructions.

And so he does the only thing he can do.

He lunges.

x-x-x-x-x-x

No sooner is he fully landed than he is thrusting his arm forward, snaking it around her waist and harshly jerking her torso upwards, Heimlich-style.

In the eerie silence that follows, it's like every molecule in the room is suspended in space, afraid to react, to usher in the next moment. Waiting, _waiting _for permission from the room's occupants to resume spinning.

Microseconds pass. Her head lolls lifelessly forward, her chin hitting her neck.

Elliot knows, rationally, that the next step is to feel her neck, to touch that critical point that will communicate life or death, to ascertain the impact of his act of desperation. But he's frozen in his place, his bloodstream surging with adrenaline, his muscles too paralyzed with fright to find out the answer.

Cragen does it for him. Without ado, his boss hastily extends two fingers forward, visibly wincing as his fingertips make contact with cold, ashen skin.

Elliot holds his breath as he awaits the verdict. _Please. Please, God._

Cragen looks up, relief flooding his face. "She's got a pulse."

Elliot exhales, then takes several rapid breaths in succession, huffing and puffing against her, clutching her like a rag doll to his chest. His heart beats wildly and beads of sweat collect on his forehead. Impulsively, he arches forward and plants a sloppy kiss on her temple, by the edge of her hairline.

_One more second. _

One more second and they would've lost her.

"Olivia, I've got you," he pants, unsure she's conscious to hear him. He tries to catch his breath, the adrenaline still electrifying him.

"Elliot?" she murmurs.

He takes a second to gather himself. _Jesus Christ, that was close. _"Yeah, it's me. Here, don't move, let me help you. Cragen's here too; we're gonna untie your wrists."

She whimpers against him. "No…"

He realizes he's got her in a death grip by the waist, her back flush against his chest. In the dim lighting it's difficult to see physical evidence of what specifically she's been through, but he assumes by her lethargy she's been beaten, and suddenly he's consumed by the possibility he's hurting her. Horrified, he immediately shifts his position to grasp her by the armpits as Cragen, meantime, works furiously to first untie the odious noose and then her wrists. While this is being done, Elliot holds her up, takes her weight, his forehead resting in the nape of her neck. She quite plainly can't stand up on her own.

"Am I dead now?" she mumbles, as her wrists are finally freed.

Cragen's eyebrows shoot up. Elliot's nerves are so frayed, he can't help bursting out with a chuckle. "No, honey. No, of course you're not dead. You're gonna be fine. Just hold on for me, okay? Hold on. We're gonna get you some help."

"Damn it." Cragen frowns, looking at his phone.

"What is it?"

"Signal's jammed in here. I gotta go outside to tell the medics which room we're in." He pauses, looking warily at the pair, concern etched in his brow. "You got her?"

"I got her," Elliot affirms. With the noose gone, he gently pulls Olivia downwards, into his lap, mindful of potential injuries. "Cragen's getting some help," he tells her, in case she wasn't paying attention. Her eyes are still closed and he can't tell how lucid she is. "You're gonna be fine."

"Okay," she mumbles docilely.

With Cragen gone, he cradles her to his body, the relief coursing through him. In spite of her utterance, he senses she has no idea how close she just came to dying.

_You dolt, how could you never have figured out you love her? _he wonders dazedly. Inadvertently, he pulls her closer, his heart starting to calm. He wants to laugh out loud at his own ineptitude. _Of course you love her. There's never been a time when you didn't._

And he just came within a hair of losing her. Not to another squad, another city, another man.

But to death.

He wheezes against her back, wanting desperately to help her, to comfort her, to make up for all the times he was callous towards her, uncaring, unkind. Indifferent. Holding her like this now, he feels a warmth flood through him. He feels at peace, complete. He knows she requires medical attention, that shortly he will need to give her up to EMTs, doctors, nurses; people who will help her, unconditionally. But right now he just wants to hold her, take care of her, never let her go.

Enough is enough, he now thinks. He can't go through this again. After they get her to a hospital, he's going to talk to her. He's going to tell her how he feels, in plain English. No more beating around the bush. No more euphemisms. _I love _you, he's going to say. _I've always loved you. I'm IN love with you. _Maybe then she'll stop volunteering for these assignments. Maybe then he'll –

His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a low rumbling, just beyond the threshold of the classroom. It's the medics, rolling a stretcher down the hallway.

He kisses her hairline again. _Oh thank God._

But it can't be, on second thought; the whole building's shaking.

He arches his neck, trying in vain to see outside to the darkened corridor. His eyes widen as a maelstrom of debris swirls towards him.

And then the floor collapses beneath them.


	12. Chapter 12

The first thing he becomes aware of as he awakens is the scent of ash. Potent and caustic, it accosts his nostrils.

He takes in his surroundings. He's immersed in darkness, save for a handful of faint rays that manage to permeate the rubble directly over his head. The rays cast a gloomy glow around the cavernous space. He can see, but just barely.

There's a strange weight on him, too. Groggily, he feels around, trying to clear his head, recall what in the world he's doing here.

He jumps when he feels flesh, the memory instantly sharp as day: Olivia!

Frantically, he touches the heap that is, miraculously, still intact in his lap, checking for signs of life. "Liv?"

She murmurs something, but he doesn't catch it.

It doesn't matter; the point is, she responded. "Are you all right?"

But his jubilation is cut short as he recalls what poor condition she was in just before the building's collapse. No matter what, _that_ was as well as she could possibly be doing right now.

Her speech is slurred. "Are you… are you here?"

He instinctively pulls her closer, arching his neck so he can just make her out in profile. He wishes he could see her better, ascertain how badly she was injured in the fall. Or prior. "Yeah, I'm here. I'm here, and it's gonna be okay. Just stay with me, okay?"

He barely catches her throaty whisper. "I'm sorry…"

His heart breaks. _Oh, honey. _"You have nothing to be sorry for," he chokes out.

"But I… I…" she stumbles.

"Liv – "

"Why are you… why are you here?" she manages finally.

Even in this state, it strikes him as an odd thing to ask. "I'm here… to help you."

"No, _in _here."

"In where? I don't understand."

"This is… this is where _I'm_… s'pposed…s'pposed…mmm…" her voice trails off.

He gapes at her helplessly. "Liv, I don't understand what you're talking about."

It takes her an extra beat to answer. "Why… why did you come here?" She tops the question off with a cough. The air is terrible in here.

The guilt assails him violently. He'd left her. A relationship she'd depended on, the only stable one she'd ever had. And oh, the irony: she'd counted on him _in spite_ of never knowing how much he really loved her.

He sighs, reminding himself this is no time to devolve in self-reproach. She needs him. "Honey, just relax, okay? We're gonna get you some help."

He expects this to be the end of this thread, but apparently she's fixated on getting a literal answer to her question.

"But… why?"

He feels like he's talking to a child. "Why what?"

"Why are you helping me?"

Elliot blinks. No victim, no matter how confused or traumatized, has ever asked such a thing. He must be mishearing something. Maybe he hit his _own_ head. "What?"

He senses her agitation, even before she makes her next statement, which manages to frighten him more than anything his own imagination could conjure in six days straight of picturing all the things those bastards might have been doing to her.

"I didn't earn it."

He tells himself she's still dazed from her ordeal, or that she's confused, thinking about something else.

And yet he senses she's genuinely troubled by his presence. He pulls her closer, lays a cheek against her bare back, desperately wanting to comfort her.

She jerks, a little, then coughs again, sucking in gulps of tainted, ashy air.

Then he feels it: wetness on his cheek. He touches it to confirm, instantly recognizing the sticky texture and familiar metallic smell.

Tears well up in his eyes as his fears are finally confirmed. "You've been beaten."

Her profile is a silhouette against the backdrop of the pile of debris. He watches her eyelids shutter, her cheek twitch. She doesn't want to tell him.

"What… what did they do to you?" he asks gently.

Finally, she opens her enormous eyes, gleaming in the shadows. "Th-they punished me." Terrible shame punctuates each word.

Frantically, he covers his mouth as vomit pools up his esophagus, as he's once again plagued by the memory of all those days of inaction. Of how he stood outside passively, obediently listening to the Feds while she was being beaten. He could've found a way to sneak inside, to sidestep the explosives that, after so much careful and patient research and planning, everyone managed to miss anyway. Even if it had meant landing himself a jail cell in Federal prison. It would've been worth it. _She _is worth it.

With all that he has, he wills the vomit back down, taking several breaths to calm himself. More than ever, she needs him to be strong right now. "I'm so sorry you had to go through this," he tells her quietly. _I'll never let you suffer again. I promise you that._

"I-I did have to go through it," she states.

He furrows his brow, unsure what she means. He lets it go, though. She's obviously not fully clear-headed.

In any event he's preoccupied by the need to check her, to see how extensively she's been assaulted. And by how to do it tactfully. The last thing he wants is to upset her. "How many times did they beat you like this?" he ventures.

He knows by the way she inhales sharply that she's heard the question. He waits several seconds, but it's apparent she doesn't intend to respond. That's okay; her silence is his answer: _many times. _ A lone tear finally escapes from his eye, trickles down his cheek.

"Elliot?" she asks abruptly.

"I'm right here," he reassures softly.

She pauses. "It's… it's you."

"Yeah, Liv, it's me. I'm here. I'm here for you. I'm gonna help you."

"I'm… I'm glad you're here," she blurts.

He loves her with all his heart, but all the same he's troubled by the childlike declaration. The Olivia he knows would never admit to needing him, at least not quite so bluntly, so nakedly.

"I'm so grateful I got to you in time," he rejoins, still digesting the tenor of her comment.

He pulls her closer into his embrace, mindful, now, of her beaten back. He inhales the scent of her hair; sweet and fruity. He can't help but sigh in delight; in spite of the direness of the situation, it feels so good to be able to hold her.

And then he starts, the realization hitting him:

She smells… _clean. _

Not that it's unheard of for hostages to be allowed to bathe, but… it just doesn't jive with how mistreated she otherwise seems to have been.

Which means she was likely… _made _to bathe. For reasons that had nothing to do with her personal comfort.

His whole body shakes as he considers the implications, as he tries desperately to deny what he knows in his gut to be true.

He knows it's not right of him to ask her, while she's still in such poor physical and mental condition. But he has to know.

He tries to make his voice as unthreatening as possible. Still, it hitches as he finally brings himself to vocalize the question. "Olivia, did they… did they rape you?"

To his surprise, she's quick with a reply. "No… no, they didn't."

He exhales a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. So she took a bath. It was not some twisted, pre-assault purification ritual. There is some mercy in the universe after all. He can help her with physical wounds. Those will heal. "Oh thank God."

"It was consensual."


	13. Chapter 13

He wishes he could take it back, rewind the moment. Wishes he'd never asked the question.

Wishes she'd said yes. Yes, they'd raped her. That would be better than this.

Desperate to block out her answer, he pretends it's possible he didn't hear her correctly. "It… it was what?"

"I… I wanted to do it." But there's a twinge of uncertainty there, like now that she's uttered the words out loud, she's reconsidering their rationality.

_It's impossible she got brainwashed in just six days, _he reassures himself. _She's just dazed. Confused. Tired. She's repeating what one of the other women told her. _

No. It's just not possible that in the course of a mere week, his tough, proud and intelligent partner has bought into the nonsense of these criminals. Olivia has her insecurities like anyone else, but his partner is not fundamentally emotionally vulnerable. There's got to be some other explanation for her bizarre behavior.

Meantime, what the _hell_ was he thinking, broaching the subject when they're still in the midst of crisis?

Plan B, then. Compartmentalize. Deal with something practical, like her medical needs. There will be plenty of time later to ascertain her mental state, he thinks grimly.

"Okay… maybe, uh, maybe can we talk a bit more about that later?"

Her voice is almost cheerful. "Okay."

He clears his throat, utterly unnerved. Unconsciously, he pulls her closer into his protective embrace. "How are you feeling? What do you need?"

"I'm feeling fine," she states flatly.

Normally such a response would be typical stoic, stubborn Olivia, unwilling to admit to needing help. But that's not what he's hearing now. It's not that she's _pretending_ to not need help out of a misguided need not to be anyone's burden. It's that she genuinely believes that how's she's feeling now – hurt and weak and broken – is how it's supposed to be.

She's anything but fine, of course. For starters, she's trembling palpably, but even shirtless, it's not that cold in here. He reaches a palm to her forehead and grimaces: hot and clammy.

He looks up at the tiny sliver of light that penetrates the overhead debris. It's not direct sunlight, but it's close. He thinks, perhaps, that the subterranean air pocket in which they've found themselves is two layers of building removed from the outside. There's hope.

He takes a deep breath and hollers at the top of his lungs. "HEEEEEEELP!"

He's not necessarily expecting an immediate response, but rather hoping someone overhead will _think _they _might _have heard _something. _

But what he doesn't anticipate is the effect his sharp cry will have on Olivia. She jumps out of her skin, so startled, she rolls over onto her side, and proceeds to crawl as far away from him as she can get.

"Liv!" he exclaims. "Liv, I'm so sorry!"

He traverses the eight feet she's traveled on his knees, to the spot where a pile of rubble has stopped her in her tracks. Her back to him, she has now curled up in the fetal position, whimpering. He can't make out what she's saying. He leans down, places a soft palm on her temple. "Liv? Liv, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

She doesn't respond.

"Liv? Liv, I'm gonna shout again, okay? You ready? I'm gonna count to three."

"Stop," she moans.

Pity washes over him as he eyes her form, in so much distress over one loud sound. "Liv," he starts, more soothingly, "I've gotta call for help, ok? One more time."

He looks at her again, has an idea. He reaches to her hand, which is tucked protectively into her chest, and gently pries it loose. When she doesn't protest, he rubs his thumb against her palm, hoping the simple gesture will help reinforce his innocuousness. "On the count of three, both of us scream together, okay? You got that?"

He waits. Nothing.

Patiently, he repeats his ministrations to her palm. "Olivia? When I count to three, you and I both yell 'help' together, okay?"

"Okay," she mumbles finally, still tucked into herself, save for her wayward left hand, which she allows him to continue to hold.

"All right. Good. Loud as you can. One. Two. Three." He hesitates, glancing at her warily, unsure she's truly on board. But this is life-or-death, he reminds himself. A loud noise won't physically harm her.

His decision made, he takes a deep breath. "HELP!" he yells.

But this time, he's the one who's startled. Not by her cry, but rather by just how anemic her voice is as she shouts with him.

Demoralized, he glances around, his eyes settling on a passageway through the rubble, to what might be another open space, just beyond. If this building has been operating as a school and dormitory, there's a chance he'll find some useful supplies if he goes exploring. He hates the idea of leaving her, but faced with the prospect of a long wait for help, he's desperate to do something productive to help her.

"There's got to be a cafeteria or something around here," he mumbles, more to himself. It's not like she's going to add anything meaningful to the plan. "These people had to eat something. I'm going to see if I can find you some food and water, okay?"

"No," she says sharply, with more energy than her cry for help contained.

"Liv, I won't leave you for long, I promise. I'll be right back."

"No, I mean, I'm not allowed."

He freezes, his blood running cold. "You're not allowed what? What are you talking about?"

"I'm not… " She seems to pause to think. He's not sure _she_ even knows what she's talking about.

And it's like a switch has gone off. Arduous as it is for her, she rolls over onto her back and exerts enormous physical effort to rise to a sitting position. All this maneuvering, apparently, just to be in a position to glare at him. "You're not supposed to be here," she says accusingly. "You'll get me in trouble."

Nothing she could have said to him could've prepared him for this. He feels like he's been punched in the gut. He closes the remaining space between them but stops short of touching her, not wanting to further distress her. He tucks his chin, trying to catch her eye. "Olivia, it's over, okay? Gunther, he's gone. He's gone, okay? He can't get to you. You're safe now."

She shakes her head vociferously. "No. This is a dream. You're not real."

"I am, Liv. I promise, this is real." Once again, he tentatively takes her hand in his, squeezes gently.

But she yanks her hand away. "No," she asserts icily. "This is a trick. You're just a voice in my head."

x-x-x-x

Hours have passed, or what _feels _like hours; he's not wearing a watch and there's no way to tell time down here. To his great relief, Olivia has fallen asleep on the floor by his feet. Not that this is any time for selfish pride, but he can't help but feel thankful: it's given him a chance to cry – bawl was more like it – without any witnesses. It's been decades – perhaps not since childhood – since he cried so hardily. And dammit, it felt strangely good. When the tears finally subsided, he felt rejuvenated. Like he had rediscovered a hidden strength to face what had happened to her. An inner resolve to fight to help her, even if she continued to deny she needed it.

And so now that the episode is over, he gathers himself anew, once again becoming the adult, ready and able and determined to bear the full responsibility of having another person's life in his hands. At this moment, his own emotional and physical needs are subordinate to Olivia's. His only goal, his only focus, is to help her. He can_not_ fail her again.

The reality, however, is that his options to do anything productive for her, are limited. For one thing, he has since reconsidered his plan to go scouring for food and water. For starters, there's no guarantee the path he thinks he sees will lead anywhere useful and there's a chance, albeit small, that he could wind up getting lost. Second, whether she accepts and welcomes his presence or not, he doesn't want to leave her alone. After everything she's been through – and he's coming to the grim realization that it's a lot more than any of them might have imagined – he senses that the last thing she needs when she awakens is to spend more time alone with her demons.

He watches her sleep, glad, for the moment, she's at peace. He wishes, at the very least, he could cover her with something. Even in slumber, her shivering hasn't abated and there's something especially indecent about allowing her to remain exposed when she's so clearly not in her right mind, when she herself shows no signs of being perturbed by her own nakedness. Alas, his own t-shirt is so caked in dust from the fall he worries it would do more harm than good against so many open wounds.

Presently his attention is drawn elsewhere: something smells rotten.

Grateful for the distraction, he scrambles onto his knees, hunting for the source. Not that there's anything he can do if this turns out to be something serious – a gas leak, perhaps – but his basic operating principle has always been that more information is better than less.

He crawls, first forward, then sideways, trying to decipher where, precisely, the odor is coming from. It's an odd scent, and its source is close by; he just can't quite pinpoint _where_.

And then he starts: the smell is coming… from _her. _

He's only got shadows to work with and so he uses his nose as a guide, careful not to disturb her. He wants her to rest.

He traces the strange scent to her back, and abruptly realizes what it is: one of the wounds is obviously infected. Which would account for the fever he's certain she's running. She's been shivering since the collapse.

All at once, his heart pounds in naked terror as the implications of this development wash over him. An infection so advanced as to be emitting olfactorially detectable putrescence is not merely dangerous; it's potentially _life-threatening_.

He shakes his head, chiding himself. He's been so focused on her mental state he's lost sight of the sheer urgency of the situation: in his sole care is a direly ill woman who's been severely assaulted. Whether she agrees she's been raped is a matter for later. Whether she understands where she is or who is with her is also a matter for later.

Because she needs medical attention, _now. _

And so he's going to have to scream for help, continuously, no matter how much it upsets her.

And if that doesn't work, he's going to have to find help himself. However risky it is, he's going to have to trample his way through the rubble, risking unknown hazards and triggering an avalanche, all on the minute chance of finding a means of egress.

Which means he's going to have to leave her here, alone. A dying woman who can hardly move, let alone generate the quick reflexes required in the event of, say, falling debris, or whatever other surprises a tiny air pocket beneath the rubble of a collapsed building might have in store. Reflexes that could conceivably spell the difference between life and death.

A dying woman who's too mentally gone to know the difference between her partner's presence and his absence. Who even understands her situation since captivity has fundamentally changed.

A woman whose instinct in the face of imminent physical danger, might not be to save herself.


	14. Chapter 14

His lungs need a break. He's been hollering for help for a quarter-hour, during which time he has had to hold Olivia in a vice grip as she flays wildly, unbearably distressed by the cacophony. Even at her best, he is a lot stronger than she is and so he's easily able to restrain her without hurting her. Still, he's disgusted with himself for having to do this to her, for being one more man who flaunts his physical power over her. There's just simply no choice.

Still, doing this is certainly better than Plan B, the need for which he had heretofore hoped would be obviated by his screaming. Alas; holler after holler has been met with empty silence, and he has come to realize it will be necessary: as soon as she's calm enough, he's going to try to find a passageway to the outdoors.

It's no longer precautionary, a matter of preventing things from getting worse. Because her condition is deteriorating. Even her frantic attempts to get away from him have lacked the sort of energy he knows she's capable of. The abuse she's suffered is taking a very real physical toll on her body and he's petrified that the infection on her back is only the tip of the iceberg.

For the third time in as many minutes, he compulsively reaches to her and feels her forehead. It's burning hot; possibly hotter than before, though that could just be his own mind playing tricks on him. Still, he has five children; he knows a high fever when he feels one.

He loosens his grip on her gradually, trying to get her to settle down. "Okay, okay, I'm not gonna scream anymore, okay?"

As soon as she's free, she makes a beeline on her hands and knees for a nook several feet away, where she parks herself against a steel beam and curls into a ball, knees to her chin, breathing heavily. Even in the terrible lighting, he can see her eyes are wild with fear.

He puts both hands up and approaches her cautiously, on his knees. "Olivia? Okay, just relax, no more screaming okay?"

She nods slowly, understanding.

"Good. Good. Do you know who I am?"

She nods again.

"Who am I?"

"You're Elliot," she whispers.

He sighs in relief. "Yeah, that's right. That's right. I'm not going to hurt you, okay?"

He waits.

He tries again. "Do you understand? I want to help get you out of here. I want to bring you somewhere safe. That's all I want to do."

She stares.

He cocks his head. "Do you trust me?"

She thinks about it for a second. "Yes."

"Good. So this is what I need to do: I need you to stay here, while I go see if I can find some help. Do you understand?"

"No," she moans, like a child who's been told it's bedtime.

He inches ever closer to her, careful to still give her some buffer. Patiently, he lays a hand lightly on her bicep. "Olivia? Honey, look at me. Look at me. I'm not going to go for long."

She buries her face in her knees. "Don't leave me," she whispers.

"Honey, it won't be for long, I prom –"

"Don't leave me don't leave me don't leave me don't leave me don't –"

"Olivia, I –"

She halts her chant abruptly, looks up at him, her eyes desperate. "P-please don't leave me here," she pleads, her voice squeaking. "I'll do whatever you want."

Hearing his proud partner beg so nakedly breaks his heart. Tears well up in his eyes, and it's all he can do to hold it together. "Okay," he says finally. "Okay, I won't go anywhere."

"I'll do whatever you want," she repeats.

He shakes his head sadly. "You don't have to do anything. I'm right here. I'm here for you. _For_ you."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Olivia has fallen asleep again, about four feet away on the dusty, ashy floor. She's on her side in the fetal position, her back to him. He tries not to think about all the toxic chemicals her lungs are inhaling.

He tiptoes to the far end of the cavernous space, where he squints at the debris, trying to discern if the path he spotted earlier leads anywhere. He doesn't know what he'll do if he finds an actual passageway – he will not break his promise to her – but he tells himself he'll cross that bridge when he comes to it. Maybe he can take her with him. Maybe she'll let him carry her. He thinks about that for a moment. He _could _carry her. It's not a terrible idea. And it would certainly be less risky than leaving her alone in what he presumes is an unstable structure.

As he inspects the wall of junk and rubble, it seems to him there is, indeed, a small space beyond.

Suddenly, he hears a rumbling directly behind him and the floor shakes beneath his feet. The faint ray that has provided all of his light flickers, as the angle of its penetration shifts. He whips around and dives back to the spot where he left Olivia, cocooning himself over her body. For nearly ten seconds he covers her, wheezing into her shoulder blade.

The rumbling ceases; nothing has happened. He waits a full minute before he sits up again, panting, his heart racing, watching her as she continues to sleep peacefully on the floor, as if nothing in the world is amiss.

He stares down at her and touches her shoulder. "Liv?"

Nothing.

His heart leaps into his throat. "Liv?" he repeats, with more energy, as panic engulfs him. He shakes her a little. "Come on, Liv, wake up."

He swallows a lump, pleading in his head with a God he's no longer sure he believes in.

_Please. Please, just let her be alive. I promise, I'll be a better person. I promise, if you let her live, I'll –_

He stops himself abruptly, angrily. Because the prayer is pure selfishness, its empty rhetoric serving only to soothe his own disquieted mind with the false hope of intervention, while also serving the ulterior purpose of giving him permission to put off for precious seconds learning her fate and therefore the searing, agonizing pain that will be inevitable if the worst has already come to pass. But if it hasn't, _if it hasn't, _seconds expended pleading with a being who's proven not to care a whit about Olivia could be spent taking productive steps to revive her, by a person whose whole world is Olivia.

He _must_ take the risk of experiencing such pain before he's psychologically ready.

And so through sheer will, Elliot now forces himself to buck up, to brace himself for the action he knows he must take.

_One. Two. Three. Do it._

Without further cogitation, he thrusts his hand forwards, his fingers making contact with the bruised column of her neck.

And just like that, the moment of anguish is over: she's still alive.

His plan abandoned and his nerves shot, he pulls her limp body into a sitting position in his lap and holds her closely against his chest, listening to the rhythm of her breathing. As long as she's breathing, he can survive.

As his autonomic nervous system recovers from this most recent exigency, he realizes that Olivia is too sick to transport. At least here in this pocket, the structure is more stable and the air is breathable. Who knows what lies beyond.

And so he has no choice but to be passive now, to wait for help to somehow find him.

He knows he needs to accept that Olivia might not make it. For some reason, the fact that _he _might not is perfectly palatable to him. He knows it's not rational to have been in denial with respect to his partner but not himself, especially when she is the one whose physical condition is already so precarious.

Which brings him to his latest insight: there is virtually no circumstance under which he would die but she would survive.

He grimaces, thinking about this.

About the reality that Olivia might die, here in the ruins of her prison, the site of her abuse and torture for a full week.

He's thankful for one thing: that he can be with her now. That he can tell her things he wants her to know, that even if she's not awake to hear them, her mind will process them nonetheless and provide her with soothing dreams.

Because he's always thought dying alone has got to be the worst thing – to have no chance left to ever communicate with a loved one, to know for sure that a loved one loved you. To have no idea how much you meant to the people in your life. In his former career, he saw a lot of people who died alone. Some so gruesomely he sometimes couldn't wrap his head around how they possibly endured it. To have life ooze out of them, with only the faces of their murderers to keep them company. Those people haunted his dreams for decades.

He arches forward and plants a kiss on her hairline. If he can't do anything else for her, at least let her enjoy the comfort of another person.

And if this is to be the end, at least let her be with someone who loves her.

Even if she still doesn't know it.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Across the table, his teenage son snidely asks Olivia if she's ever slept with his father. It's a vicious, below-the-belt accusation, full of malice and misplaced rage that makes Elliot fume. Never mind that he would _love _to sleep with Olivia; the insinuation – the fact that his son thinks she's fair game in his mission to get his father where it hurts – demeans her more than it does him. But Olivia stands her ground, and, without missing a beat, she tells his son point-blank that she hasn't.

Elliot doesn't question why he has a second chance to make this right by his partner; rather, he jumps at the opportunity: This time, he barges into the room and yanks his son up by the collar and forces him to look her in the eye and apologize to her. And when that's done, he pulls her aside and apologizes to her himself, but not before telling her she needn't have even dignified Dickie's question with a denial. Because _she _has nothing to answer for.

Olivia accepts Elliot's apology at face value, which is very nice for him, but all the same he wishes she would get a little more pissed off. After all, why should she have had to put up with his mean-spirited son? He starts to tell her this, that she shouldn't have answered Dickie at all, but she interrupts him. She tells him it's okay, she _deserved_ the attack! She deserved it, because –

He awakens with a start. It takes him several seconds to realize where he is, that he is not reliving an event from two years ago, but rather that he is still trapped below ground with his injured partner. He must have dozed off. It's no wonder, he supposes; he hasn't slept in days and biology always ultimately trumps mental fortitude.

It doesn't take him long to figure out what awakened him: there is a sharp glare aimed directly at his face. Squinting tiredly, he realizes a sliver of light is penetrating the tiny space in which he and Olivia are entombed. Suddenly, several beams of light are travelling conspicuously around the space, like alien spaceships scouting the perfect landing spot.

"Elliot! Olivia!"

Elliot looks up at the ceiling in astonishment. "Captain!"

He hears a gasp, and then a shriek, and then a pair of eyes peaks down at them from a tiny gap in the ceiling. "Oh my God, they're alive!"

The voices manage to awaken Olivia. She freezes against Elliot, her muscles primed with fight-or-flight instinct.

Elliot's joy is eclipsed by the need to comfort Olivia, who is obviously agitated by the introduction of new sounds, however musical they are to his ears. He lays a fingertip on her wrist, tapping it lightly. "It's all right," he soothes. "Nobody's going to hurt you, okay?" She seems a little more alert than earlier. He's heartened.

Twenty feet above their heads, his former captain peers down at them, the relief palpable on his face. "You guys all right?"

Elliot hesitates. "I'm fine." He glances warily at Olivia. "She's…. she, uh, she needs some help."

Cragen nods, his eyes jumping worriedly to Olivia, who is perched in Elliot's lap, and is seemingly unfazed by the specter of a rescue. "You doing ok, Olivia?" he calls.

"C-captain?" she asks uncertainly.

Cragen's eyes light up at her responsiveness. "Yeah, Liv, it's me. We're gonna get you out of there, okay? You just hang on."

She clenches her eyes shut, shakes her head.

Cragen nervously clears his throat, addresses Elliot. "EMTs are standing by, but the structure's too unstable right now to come in. It's gonna take some time to dig you guys out. Think you can hang on a few hours?"

Elliot pales. "Hours?" His eyes flit to Olivia. "She… she, uh…"

Cragen gets the message. "Tell you what. I can have some supplies thrown down. Are you injured?"

"No."

"All right. Good. Think you can help her on your own?"

"I think so."

"Tell me what you need."

Elliot nods gratefully. "She needs… she needs first aid. The works. Antiseptic, bandages. She's got a badly infected wound plus a high fever. So antibiotics too, the sooner the better. And we could also use some food and water."

"No," she mumbles. "No food."

Elliot sighs.

_And maybe while you're at it can you throw down a good psychiatrist?_

"You got it," Cragen calls. "I'll get a doctor on the phone and see about the antibiotics."

"Oh, and as many flashlights as you've got."

"Roger that."

Just as Cragen jerks his head back out, Elliot stops him. "Oh and Captain?"

"Yeah?"

"Can you get her… can you get her a shirt please?"

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

They expect it to be a good three hours before they're able to plow through the rubble safely, let alone bring medics in. In the meantime, Elliot has been thrown a lifeline: food, bottled water, towels, flashlights, penicillin and a full supply of first aid. He's still terribly worried, but at least the outlook now is one of hope.

He's laid out a beach-towel-covered workspace on the floor, complete with six flashlights, beaming eerie rays at the ceiling. He feels like he's about to conduct a séance.

He approaches Olivia, whom he's left perched against a steel beam while he's been getting organized. He hesitates for a moment. He hates talking to her like he would a child, but unfortunately it's the only tone she seems to respond to.

"All right, I need you to lie down on the towel on your stomach, can you do that?"

She lets out a small sound of protest, but he can't read her.

He looks at her anxiously. "Are you… are you hurt…" he points at her belly-button "… there?" He reaches out to her slowly, shows her his hand. "Can I check?" She follows his gaze downwards, as if her own skin is alien to her. With her implicit green-light, he shines a flashlight at her exposed front, feeling around the taut flesh of her abdomen with his other hand. She lets him. Detecting no abrasions, he pushes down carefully. "Does that hurt?"

She stares blankly at him, and he takes the absence of a flinch as a positive sign.

"Can you lie down then?"

She swallows nervously, then musters to follow his order. She uses her palms to propel herself gingerly forward, towards the towel. Seeing her like this, he chides himself for making her maneuver on her own. He immediately intervenes, grasping her by the armpits and guiding her to the beach towel. In the process his pinky skirts her breast, still covered only by a bra. He freezes, terrified she'll freak out, but she doesn't register any reaction.

Once on her stomach, she rests her cheek flat against the towel, trembling, waiting for whatever's next. It occurs to him she may not understand why she's been placed in this position.

"I'm going to clean your wounds, okay?"

Training his flashlight, he takes in a sharp breath at the full sight of her back. The welts almost completely blanket her flesh and they are vicious. They're in various stages of healing, some doing better than others. Incredibly, one is still bleeding. It's clear she's not only been beaten repeatedly, but also with a variety of instruments.

His eyes inadvertently wander lower, to where her bare back disappears beneath the coverage of the white skirt, its delicate lace so incongruent against the violence of what's been done to her. He suppresses an impulse to grasp its waistband, see how far down the welts reach. But even if it's for her own good, he can't expose her like that. She's been abused terribly and he just can't cross that line. Not unless it's absolutely necessary.

He spots the infection. It's at the lower right corner of her back, nearly at her hipbone. It is a sickening green, and oozes thick pus. Which suggests that this was done to her no more recently than two days ago. He furrows his brow. How is it she's not writhing in pain from this?

_What if she's been drugged?_

He startles at the thought, shocked this is the first such a thing is occurring to him.

And now it all makes sense. The bizarre comments. The blind obedience. The relative imperviousness to pain. That would explain why she succumbed so easily, and why she's so compliant now. Only drugs could make his partner so pliable, could so radically change her personality.

_It's not Stockholm, it's not brainwashing._

But as he stares at her bloody back, her body shaking, the terror on her face evident, the brief moment of relief is surmounted by a pall of dread, as he once again faces the reality. He shudders, the full realization sinking in. Another tear leaks out of his eye. He wipes it instinctively, even though there's no one to see.

Because his theory does nothing to change the situation.

She's still been brutalized.

And whether she admits it or not, she's still been raped.

Once again, emotion wells up forcefully and he fights desperately not to break down right here, right now.

_Pull yourself together. She needs you._

He takes several measured breaths, determined not to let anything else distract him. He can't let her down again.

He pulls out a packet of rubbing alcohol from the kit, hesitating before he makes contact with the toothbrush-sized welt. "This might sting a bit, okay?"

"Okay," she says robotically.

He notices that her eyes are clenched tightly shut and that she's breathing laboriously. With the back of his hand, he touches her temple to comfort her, but she flinches so violently he jumps.

"I'm sorry!" he exclaims. "I didn't mean to startle you. Here, just relax, okay?"

He studies the profile of her face closely, puzzled. He touched her temple earlier, with no such reaction.

The answer hits him with a jolt: _She thinks you've laid her out like this to beat her._

He leans forward on his knees, his mouth at her ear. "I'm not gonna hurt you, okay?" He uses his most soothing tone, the one he used to reserve for the children he interviewed.

He waits for a response, but even in profile he sees she's still paralyzed in terror. He tries again. No matter what, he will not touch her against her will. "It's me, it's Elliot. Not Gunther. Do you understand?"

He waits. Nothing, save for a nearly inaudible whimper.

"Do you understand, Olivia? You are _not_ going to get hit again, okay?"

He lays a hand around her forearm, which continues to tremble in tempo with her body. "No more beatings." He pauses, cringing at the term he realizes he must use to get through to her. "No more… punishments."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

It takes him nearly a full hour to dress her back. She lies still throughout the procedure, seemingly unfazed, but beneath the veneer he senses a simmering terror that his words have failed to assuage. And so every time he touches her, he reassures her. Step by step, he explains what he's going to do, and, more importantly, what he's _not _going to do. It requires a lot of patience, a lot of repetition. But he's happy to do it. He'll do anything to put her at ease. "I'm going to cover one more wound, now, the same one I just touched, okay?" he tells her. "It's just a little bandage." He pauses. "I'm _not _going to hit you."

When he's finally done, he helps her turn over and then carefully pulls her into a sitting position. He shows her the t-shirt Cragen has provided. It is white and fresh and oversized and clean: exactly what she needs.

She stares at it, like she's never seen such a garment before.

He asks the obvious. "Do you want to put it on?"

Her failure to respond no longer fazing him, he takes further initiative. He scrunches the material up around the neck hole and aims it at her head. "Let's get this on you, okay?" he says quietly.

When she doesn't object, he proceeds to push the t-shirt over her head. She sits limply, not helping out, as he takes each of her arms like a rag doll and pulls them through their respective sleeve holes.

With that done, he sits back and takes her in, feeling a weight unexpectedly lifted from his shoulders: with this $5 piece of material, she has instantly regained some semblance of her dignity.

He turns, now, to the bottle by his side and shows it to her. "Here's some water."

She narrows her eyes. He can't be sure, but he thinks her breathing quickens.

"You're not thirsty?"

Her eyes flit from the bottle to him, back to the bottle, then settle back on him. Her suspicion is evident.

"Liv?"

She seems paralyzed in indecision.

He shows her the bottle again, as innocuously as possible. Her eyes skirt to the clear liquid inside and she swallows, eyeing it with lust. She's definitely thirsty.

He slowly moves his other hand towards her and gently grasps her wrist, dodging the bruises that encircle it. He then guides it to the bottle. Her fingers automatically clamp around the cool plastic. "Here," he says. "Take it, it's okay."

She hesitates again.

"Drink."

At this, she tentatively brings the bottle to her mouth, her eyes nervously meeting his.

He nods encouragingly. "Go ahead, have some."

She's still frozen, the bottle hovering a half-inch from her lips, not making contact.

He sighs, realizing with a heavy sadness how he must treat her. "Olivia, take a sip. _Now!_"

She obeys.


	15. Chapter 15

It takes five hours, not three, for the medics to arrive. They are closely trailed by Nick Amaro and a worried-looking Cragen, who obviously pulled rank to be allowed to follow them into the dangerous recesses of the destroyed structure.

Elliot looks up from where he is sitting, holding Olivia sideways on his lap, her temple resting against his shoulder. Even with the care he's administered, the extra hours it's taken to be rescued have taken their toll and her fever has raged. He thinks she's become delirious, though her lucidity was hard to discern even before Cragen's appearance. Regardless of why, she's taken to muttering things he prays she won't repeat in front of all the men who are here to help her. She has already sacrificed too much of her dignity.

As Amaro respectfully hangs back, Cragen does away with the pretense of protocol and drops to his knees squarely in front of them. Elliot studies his former boss's face. He's never seen Cragen look quite so alarmed. Granted, his boss's face tends to be permanently etched with an expression of worry, but Cragen looks positively horrified by Olivia's condition.

Cragen crouches down in front of her. "Olivia?" Elliot senses he wants to reach out and touch her.

Eyes closed and her face flushed with fever, Olivia lets out a nearly inaudible moan, but otherwise doesn't acknowledge her boss's presence. Elliot isn't surprised at all, but he's unsure whether her lassitude is strictly mental or if she's simply grown too sick to respond.

Cragen's eyes never leave Olivia's face. "How long has she been like this?"

_Like what, specifically?_ Elliot wants to ask, but he doesn't want to seem flippant. He knows how upset Cragen is, and he appreciates it, but all the same he's chagrined that the man she reports to is seeing her this way. In her right mind, Olivia would be mortified.

But Cragen has known Olivia for more than a decade; if there's anyone who cares about her and respects her as much as Elliot does, it's he. "A little while," he answers vaguely. He tries to rouse her. "Liv? Liv, the medics are here, okay? Can you open your eyes, honey?"

For a second, Elliot freezes at his inadvertent use of the term of endearment, but then he relaxes: he no longer works for this man; in any event, after what they've been through, he's earned the right to address Olivia in the manner in which his heart has always wanted to.

When she still doesn't respond, Cragen frowns, his brow creasing.

One of the medics interjects, addresses Elliot. "Detective, we need to lift her onto the stretcher."

Elliot looks up in panic, not wanting to disclose that he thinks she'll freak out if anyone else touches her. "No, let me do it."

Cragen blinks, abruptly remembering himself, and scurries to his feet. He steps aside and watches as Elliot lifts Olivia into his arms and deposits her gently onto the waiting gurney. She whimpers, her head lolling to the side on the white sheet.

Just as they start to roll her out of the cave, Elliot overhears his former boss mutter under his breath.

"We waited too long."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

In the ambulance, Elliot frets about the prospect of having to deal with a hospital staff who knows Olivia, but as they pull into the unfamiliar bay, he abruptly remembers where he is: Staten Island. He and Olivia don't know a soul in the borough.

Once inside the hospital, Elliot puts up his usual fight against those who try to whisk him away, to check for injuries. It's laughable, he thinks, to equate what he's been through with what she has. He knows such a comparison has no bearing on the criteria employed to ascertain that he, too, might need treatment – it's not like there are not enough medical professionals to go around – but still, he has an irrational need to make sure _all_ the experts are focused on her.

But they insist. He was in an explosion that brought an entire building down. He could have any number of internal injuries. After reassurances and placations from everyone that many, many people are working on Olivia, he finally relents, recognizing they won't stop badgering him until he does.

And for the first time in a week, he finally catches a break: it turns out he really isn't injured.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Hours later, after Nick has gone home and two of his daughters have visited and he's spoken to his other three children on the phone, he sits quietly with his former boss in the corridor outside the ward where Olivia is being treated, drinking stale coffee and staring despondently at his lap.

"He raped her, Don."

Beside him, Cragen stiffens. "Okay," he manages softly.

"But –"

He almost says it. Stops himself just in time. _But she said it was consensual._

Cragen might have advice as to how to handle her denial, but he's also an officer of the law. He might not be able to keep this confidential.

Elliot comes to a decision in this moment: _You will never tell a soul what she said. It can only be used against her. She never said it. _

Cragen looks up curiously. "But?"

He recovers quickly. "But… that's not all."

"What do you mean?"

"I… I don't know, exactly. But you should've heard her. I don't know… I don't know what they did to her, but it's… bad."

Cragen doesn't miss a beat, nods reassuringly. "Then we're going to get her some help, make sure she has all the support she needs, okay?" His role as leader, as pragmatic problem-solver, is ingrained in him.

Elliot is skeptical.

Cragen shifts in his seat to look Elliot straight in the eye. "Whatever she needs," he reasserts. "Okay?"

"Okay." He takes a breath, decides to confide – partially – in Cragen. "I think… I think she must have been drugged or something."

"Well it wouldn't be the first time."

"No, I don't mean with a rufie, though who the hell knows… But I mean with… well, she just was saying such weird things, like she… like she really… _believed _this guy."

"She's been traumatized, Elliot."

Elliot's frustrated. "No, Cap. No, it was more than that. Olivia's not vulnerable like that. How could she possibly succumb in a couple days without something else tampering with her mental faculties?"

"She was subjected to extreme abuse. We've seen it before."

Elliot's blood goes cold at the use of the term. She wasn't _assaulted; _she was _abused. _It was repeated. Sustained. Not her attacker's way of unleashing unbridled rage. On the contrary; it was controlled. Cold and cunning and deliberately designed to inflict maximum psychological – if not physical – anguish. She wasn't a punching bag, a one-time target. Her body, her mind, were _used, methodically, _for somebody else's perverse pleasure.

He shakes his head emphatically, trying to get the picture out of his head. Of his partner, being _abused_. "No. Not her."

"You know that's not true," Cragen says gently. "There are a lot of ways to mentally manipulate a person without drugging them."

"It doesn't matter. Olivia's strong."

Cragen looks at him sympathetically. "From what you've told me, it sounds like she was subjected to round-the-clock beatings. That alone takes a toll."

Elliot shudders involuntarily, the image of those blood-red welts on her back permanently imprinted in his mind.

_Punishment. _The term she used.

Not like a whack to the face, a kick to the ribs. That, his partner could withstand.

But searing, repeated pain, inflicted with precision and deliberate viciousness, predictable and repetitious, with no hope of a missed stroke, nor of gaining the upper hand? No amount of training, of self-defense instruction, of physical fortitude, could protect a person against such measured cruelty.

Elliot starts to shake, as images assail him, of his partner being tormented with such calculation. Of Olivia, so proud and strong, on her knees and helpless. "Oh God," he whimpers.

Cragen realizes his error and puts a hand on Elliot's shoulder. "Look. Why don't we not speculate until we hear from the doctor. And we'll let Olivia tell us, when she's ready."

Iverson, the ADF agent, suddenly appears at the end of the corridor, and starts to make his way towards the two men. When he reaches Elliot and Cragen, he clears his throat nervously, his eyes traveling from one hostile face to the other, and finally settling on Cragen. "We've confirmed Gunther and Dwight escaped through the tunnels," he says timidly.

_Of course they did, _Elliot thinks miserably.

Iverson is clearly shaken up by how badly the operation was botched, by how terrible a price Olivia has paid. "Look," he starts awkwardly, as Cragen and Elliot glare up at him. "I know this doesn't mean much, but please accept my best wishes for Detective Benson's recovery. For what it's worth, she might like to know all of the children are accounted for and that three out of the six women have been brought into custody and are currently being cared for at Bellevue. Detective Benson should be proud of the job she did."

Cragen raises a hand before Elliot has a chance to tell Iverson where he can shove his news. "Agent, thank you, we will tell her."

As Iverson traipses away, Elliot starts. _The kids, _he thinks.

Cragen notices Elliot's baffled expression. "What is it?" he asks.

"She didn't mention the kids," Elliot says.

"What?"

Elliot looks up. "Not once while we were down there. She didn't mention them, didn't ask about them."

"She'd been through a lot."

"That's it, though!" he exclaims. "What if… what if they threatened the kids? That's why she became so compliant. It wasn't brainwashing! She was protecting the kids!"

Elliot senses Cragen isn't bought in. But just as he opens his mouth to try to convince him, a doctor emerges from behind two doors, his gaze trained on the two men.

His focus instantly shifted, Elliot jumps to his feet. "Doctor, how is she?"

The fifty-something man, who introduces himself as Doctor Shapiro, has kind brown eyes and a gentle disposition that Elliot instantly takes to. He nods at the two anxious men. "It appears she'll pull through. We've got her on full-spectrum antibiotics that should cure the infection on her back. We've brought her fever down to a more tolerable level." He pauses, frowns worriedly. "To be frank, I'm more concerned about –"

Elliot seizes on the scrap of doubt, all at once reverting to his earlier theory. "Don't tell me," he interrupts excitedly. "You found drugs in her system!"

"Actually, no."

"What!"

Cragen puts a hand on his bicep. "Elliot."

"There were no drugs in her system."

"Well did you test for more unusual stuff? With the way she was behaving, she has to have been injected –"

"Mr. Stabler, I'm sorry, I –"

"It's _Detective_," he hisses.

Unperturbed, Doctor Shapiro nods patiently. "Detective, I'm sorry. She's totally clean. Whatever else she went through, she wasn't drugged. I would think this would be good news."

Elliot's at a loss. It _is _good news, he supposes. One less thing to have damaged her insides.

Cragen nods morosely. "What else, Doctor?"

"Well, it seems she's been…. " The doctor hesitates, his eyes traveling from Cragen to Elliot, as if trying to decide whom to address.

"What?" Elliot presses. He braces himself for the word. _Raped._

"Starved."

Elliot blanches. "Starved?"

"We've got her on an IV, but she'll have to be monitored carefully to make sure she eats properly and –"

Suddenly, Elliot can't hold it any longer. He tears down the hall, barrels his way into the men's room and lunges for a stall, where, without a second to spare, he violently empties his stomach into the toilet.

After he's done, he stays on his knees in front of the toilet, huffing and puffing, trying to gather himself.

_Starved._

For some reason, this aspect of her torture upsets him more than any of the other physical abuse she suffered.

Deprived of food, the most basic of human needs. Of human _rights_.

He hears another man walk into the restroom, and he recognizes the tread immediately.

Cragen speaks softly from behind him. "Doctor confirms repeated sexual assault."

"Yeah," he says sadly.

Cragen pauses. "But apparently Olivia is claiming it wasn't rape."

Elliot jumps to his feet, whips around, fire in his eyes. "Of course it was rape! What does Shapiro think, she just willingly had sex with –"

"He doesn't think that, Elliot. None of us thinks that. It just means she's going to need even more… support… from us… from you… to… to get to a point where she's comfortable –"

"Captain!" Elliot interrupts. "We have to make sure no one else hears her say this! If this bastard's defense attorney –"

"Whoa, whoa! He hasn't even been caught yet. Look, I know how upsetting this is. I _know. _But she needs support, understanding, not anger_._"

Deflated, Elliot shuffles to the sink and splashes cool water on his face. "I can't believe this is happening," he moans. "I… I _can't._"

He's suddenly aware Cragen hasn't said anything in several seconds. Elliot snaps his head to the right. "What aren't you telling me?"

Cragen hesitates. "Let me preface this by saying this is a bit moot because enough days have passed it might not have been effective anyway, but –"

"What!"

"She… she's refused any and all emergency contraception."

Elliot's jaw drops open. At the back of his mind he'd thought his partner's denial of the rape had represented a temporary lapse, a product of her state of shock, of her inability, perhaps, to fully process that she'd been rescued.

But this changes everything.

The Olivia he knows would _never, _under any circumstances, refuse that pill.

Because she knows all too well what happens to children who bear the stamp of their mothers' rapists.

The abuse has done more than merely tamper with his partner's mental faculties.

It's caused her to lose her identity.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

When he comes into the hospital room, she's staring blankly at the wall. The TV is off; the room is squeaky and sterile and silent.

"Hey," he greets softly.

Her eyes flicker at the sound of his voice. She turns her head on the pillow, waiting for him to say more.

"How are you feeling?" he ventures.

"All right," she says noncommittally.

He pulls up a seat by her bedside. She's still more frail-looking than he can ever remember seeing her – though admittedly the awareness of her food deprivation is possibly influencing this assessment – but the harsh flush of fever is mercifully gone and he can tell she's fully lucid. For a moment, he thinks maybe all of this has been a big misunderstanding. Maybe she'll admit what's happened to her, let him help her begin to heal.

"It's so… it's so noisy in here," she complains.

He glances around. Aside from the dull hum of the heart monitor, the room is stone-silent. "Can I get you anything?"

He wants so badly to reach out and touch her, to comfort her, but he's afraid of upsetting her.

"No, I'm fine."

"Do you… do you want to talk about anything?"

She turns to him. "Like what?"

It's the genuine curiosity in her voice that unnerves him. Even children understand what is meant when asked such a thing under such circumstances. He swallows nervously. "Like about what… they did to you?"

She sighs with exasperation. "Look I know you want me to say… things… about Gunther…"

"I want you to say whatever you're comfortable saying."

"It's not a matter of _comfort,_" she snaps.

"Okay, then what's it a matter of?"

She's clearly frustrated. "Look. There's nothing…. nothing to talk about. I don't know why you're harping on this."

"I'm not harping on anything, Liv."

"You _are._ You want me to say he… he… but… but I'm _telling_ you. I didn't do anything I didn't want to do. Not all sex is rape, you know."

He freezes. Even if he were mistaken about what had happened – and he knows he's not – the tenor of the remark is unlike any he's ever heard emerge from her lips. Such dismissive flippancy about an issue that has represented her core purpose on this planet for her entire adult life is so utterly uncharacteristic, so blatantly outside the fringe limits of her personality, that he knows, right here in this moment, that his partner needs help desperately.

He sees he's not going to get anywhere with his current tact. He waits a beat. "You were treated pretty harshly in there," he says neutrally. "Maybe we could talk about that."

She shakes her head. "You don't get it."

"What don't I get?"

"They weren't just doing it –" she searches for the word she's looking for " – _gratuitously_. It was for a purpose."

"What purpose was that?"

He expects anger, at the patronization inherent in the question. But instead she just looks at him, lost, and for the first time, he sees her lip quiver. "T-to… to teach me."

He wants to take her by the arms and shake her. He wants to shout at her. _Olivia, this isn't you! You know better than this! _

It takes all that he has to keep the expression on his face from betraying his disquietude. "Teach you what?"

She tosses her head to the right, blocking him out. "Forget it. You wouldn't understand."

"I want to understand."

"No you don't. You just want to tell me he was wrong."

_Well yeah… _He waits several seconds, establishing that he is prepared to accept her appraisal, move on. "Doctor says you refused the morning-after pill."

"Well I don't need it."

For a second, his heart flutters with misplaced hope: maybe the doctor was wrong and he, too, somehow, misheard her when they were buried in the rubble. Maybe she wasn't raped after all. "You don't want to take it just in case?" he asks casually, testing her.

For the first time since he's known her, she looks at him like he's betrayed her. "You, of all people." Her voice is laced with anger.

"What?"

She narrows her eyes at him. "You have _five _children. Five! How could you say that to me?"

_What the hell is she talking about? _

He puts his hands up. "Liv, I'm sorry. I just thought you would want –"

"No!" she exclaims. "You're not supposed to be here! Get out!"

"Liv, I'm sorry! I don't want to leave you alone –"

"You _have _to!" she shrieks. "Get out! GET! OUT!"

Devastated, he retreats from the room.

But as he makes his way across the threshold of the doorway, he overhears the words she whispers to herself, and he stops cold.

"You don't deserve him."


	16. Chapter 16

At home for the first time in nearly a week, Elliot takes a hot shower. He needs it; he's covered in soot and sweat and the smell of no sleep. The spray hits his face, his torso, and it feels good; it's the first bit of pleasure he's felt in days. His stomach growls, and he grins stupidly, as he pictures the super-sized all-dressed pizza that's on its way.

"_She was starved."_

Doctor Shapiro's chilling words abruptly return to him, and he wheezes against the tiled wall, trying to withhold tears that have materialized in his eyes. Without thinking about it, he turns the shower cold. The unpleasantness hits him instantly, and he forces himself to endure it full-on. It's the least he can do: to experience a tiny taste of what she had to, to show some sort of psychic camaraderie with her, as though he can somehow shoulder some of the burden himself. If his child weren't on her way over, he would cancel the pizza too.

Fifteen minutes later, his daughter Maureen arrives. The sound of the doorbell reverberates across the tiny Upper West Side one-bedroom walk-up, the rent of which is higher than his mortgage. It's eight blocks from Olivia's apartment; he's told himself since signing the lease that its proximity to her had nothing to do with his selection: it just happened to be convenient and available.

Although Maureen is busy with the bustle of her own post-college internship and the three-bedroom she shares with her roommates is two subways away, she'd sensed he would appreciate the visit and insisted upon it. Indeed; he's glad for the company of his eldest, who's mature enough, now, for him to confide in. It occurs to him how lost he's felt without Olivia these last several months, and having his daughter here feels so good, so wholesomely… _normal._

Observing her as she sits on his sofa and listens, silently, as he tells her everything, he knows she sees how deeply he cares for his former partner. He also knows she suspects that his love for Olivia is more than partnerly.

"I always liked Olivia, you know." The seemingly left-field comment is blurted out with the frankness that is his daughter's signature, after he has recounted some – not all – of the terrible details.

"I know that, honey."

She stares at him, one eyebrow semi-raised; it's the inquisitive, intelligent expression he always thought suited the assertive, professional woman she would become. "Do you?"

"What do you mean?"

"It was pretty obvious you were in love with her."

And there it is. Elliot's cheeks turn red. His instinct is to deliver his boilerplate denial – the same one he used on Kathy once upon a time during one of their darker periods – but he reconsiders in light of everything that's happened. His daughter deserves the truth. Still, a lifetime of keeping his cards close to his chest does not vanish overnight and his instinct, if not to outright deny, is still to downplay. He manages an amused, if awkward, smile. "Was it, now."

But Maureen is dead-serious. "Yeah, it was. And you were so scared we would resent you for it."

He's curious if "we" includes his ex-wife. "Did you?"

"A bit, at first," she admits. "But Mom, you know, she knew you were never unfaithful. That's what she cared about. She knew you loved her too."

"I did."

"She knew you loved Olivia."

"_I _didn't know it."

Maureen smiles. "Yes, but that's because you're a daft male."

Elliot laughs.

"Mom knew that too," she continues. "It's why she started divorce proceedings. She wanted you to have that chance. She wanted you to finally be happy. She wanted _Olivia _to be happy."

Now his daughter has ruined her own credibility, exposing the naivete that goes part and parcel with her still-tender age. He scoffs dismissively. "That's ridiculous. She hated Olivia."

Maureen holds up an index finger, cocks her head. "Don't rewrite history, Dad. Mom always liked her. She was jealous, yes. But that's not hatred. If anything, she admired her."

A curious smile tickles at his lips. "So what made her suddenly want Olivia to have me?"

"The day she gave birth to Eli. Olivia saved her life."

He hadn't expected Maureen to have such a specific answer at the ready. He thinks about it. "That's true, she did. But that's what we do."

Maureen rolls her eyes, in that exaggerated teenage way she's still capable of. "Well excuuuuse me, Dad, but not everyone thinks saving a person's life is all in a day's work."

"That's not what I meant. I just meant, what did that have to do with your mother suddenly feeling… _benevolent_… towards Olivia?"

"She realized how… how good a person Olivia was."

"She hadn't known that before?"

"Not really," Maureen says pensively. "Not _really._ She knew it in the abstract, I guess. But that day, Olivia was so... selfless about it. Mom was so touched, by how… pure she was. How she cared so much, how there were no ulterior motives. Nothing."

"Olivia's a professional. That's what she's trained –"

Maureen sighs, exasperated. "It wasn't _training, _Dad."

Elliot nods, mulling this new angle over.

They eat in silence for several seconds, when finally he turns again to his daughter. "Can I ask you something?"

Maureen swallows a wad of cheese. "Of course."

"Are you ashamed of me?"

Her eyes widen in genuine surprise. _"Ashamed? _Why would you think that?_"_

"You know why. Because of Jenna. It was all over the news."

Maureen eyes him, the shock of her father's implicit admission to needing his child's approval – so out of character from the steely, stoic detective she's used to – still obviously being digested. "First of all, something being in the news or not should have nothing to do with it."

Despite the gravity of the conversation and the general dread that hovers over the night, Elliot allows himself a moment to bask in his child's sharpness. "Point taken. But please answer the question."

"You had no choice," she says.

"Yes, but that doesn't excuse – "

"Of course it excuses it!" she snaps. She takes a measured breath, softening. "I'm sorry. Look, it just… it took a while for me to get over this. The media just likes a good story. You know that, Dad."

"Okay."

"You know what I think's really bothering you?"

Elliot raises his eyebrows. "What's that?"

"That you think Olivia lost respect for you."

"What?"

"I think you knew that Mom and us would accept the party line – that you had no choice but to shoot her. But Olivia's the only one who _you_ think _might _think you could have done something differently, because she's got the same training, the same experience. You respect her opinion."

"I could have done it differently. That's the truth."

"No you couldn't!" she fires back reflexively, angrily. "You have to stop saying that! It's bullshit!"

Elliot looks down.

"And Olivia knows it too," she continues, determined to make her father see. "The trouble is, you're projecting onto her what you think yourself."

"You can't know what Olivia thinks."

"Yes I can. Because she told me."

Elliot looks up in surprise. "What? When?"

"She came to see me a few months ago. We went to lunch."

He can't hide his astonishment. "You went to lunch… with Olivia?"

"What? You don't think she eats lunch?"

Elliot freezes, just a little, as he involuntarily flashes to his poor partner, what her doctor told him she'd been through. His daughter doesn't know this detail of Olivia's torture, and he doesn't plan to tell her. He manages to keep his expression neutral. "Okay. So you had lunch."

"Yeah. We went to this little sushi place near my apartment."

Elliot laughs, belying the dread he feels. This lovely interlude with his daughter is a breath of fresh air after the hellish week, but it is just that: an interlude. There is much more anguish in store over the coming weeks, as he helps his partner recover. "Sushi? How'd you bamboozle her into that?"

Maureen looks perplexed. "Why?"

"She hates sushi."

"Well she could've fooled me. She gobbled it up. Even tried some of the weirder stuff."

He scratches his chin. "She never got sushi once in all the times I was with her," he says, with a hint of defensiveness.

"Maybe she was humoring you. Maybe she knew you'd start with your real-cops-eat-red-meat routine."

He thinks, perhaps, his daughter is right. "Maybe." He pauses. "She loves to go out to eat," he says wistfully. "We didn't… do it enough when we were partners. We always grabbed hotdogs on the street. She used to complain about that."

"She misses you, you know."

"She said that?"

"I could just tell."

"Oh."

Maureen pauses. "She isn't dead, you know."

This gets his attention. "I know that, honey."

"You can still take her to lunch if you want."

His heart pounds, just a little, at the mention of food. "I know."

"And you can still tell her."

"Tell her what?"

Maureen sighs theatrically. "Like, seriously, Dad? _Seriously? _For the love of God. Tell her that you love her!" 

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

When Elliot arrives for visiting hours the next day, Olivia's nurse pulls him aside. "Detective Stabler, I was hoping to talk to you before you go in there."

Elliot's instantly primed as he observes the woman's morose demeanor. "What is it? What happened?"

"We were hoping you might talk to your… partner."

"What is it?" he presses.

"She's refusing to eat. We've got her on intravenous fluids, but that can only provide so much. If she continues to refuse we'll have to put her on a feeding tube."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

He treads softly as he enters the room, trying to appear as innocuous as possible. He doesn't think he can take getting kicked out again. But as soon as he sees her, he knows there won't be a repeat of yesterday. Not because she's actively changed her mind, but rather because her diminished mental capacity has extended to her attention span. She recognizes him, of course, but her memory of her outburst has receded from her consciousness. She's seeing him this morning with fresh eyes.

Still, he doesn't push his luck; he resists the urge to rush over to her, take her in his arms and hold her.

Her eyes track him as he traverses the short distance to her bedside. Not hostile, he thinks. Just _wary_.

"How are you feeling?"

"All right," she says blandly. It's better than _get out of here._

He pulls up a chair and looks at her, taking her in, trying to assess how to broach it. "Nurse says you refuse to eat," he starts gently. "What's that about, huh?"

She rolls her eyes. "Oh not you too."

"You've got to eat, Liv. They're going to force you."

She meets his eyes for a brief second, and in that instant he sees it: not defiance, as he had expected. But something more chilling: raw panic.

"What is it, honey?"

She shakes her head, her eyes full of fresh tears. Tears he knows the old Olivia would be mortified to display.

"It's okay," he encourages.

"I…. I _can't," _she rasps.

"You can't what?"

"I… I'm s-so…"

"You're so what?"

Her voice is barely a peep. "Scared."

He's so stunned by the admission he gawks at her for a full second before he remembers himself. He instinctively inches his chair closer to her bedside and places a soft hand over hers. "You're scared of what, honey?"

"I'm not – " She stops, looks all around the room as if to confirm nobody else is listening. " – allowed."

Genuinely confused, he asks, "You're not allowed what?"

She looks up at him with bright, haunted eyes. "To eat."

His mouth goes dry. It isn't loss of appetite resulting from so much trauma, as he had presupposed. He had thought he would simply have to coax her, convince her it was important to rebuild her strength.

The implications of her answer horrify him. It was one thing to be under the delusion of captivity while they were still buried in the building, while she was still so hurt and disoriented and delirious from fever. But she's in the hospital now, well-cared for and safe and lucid. "You're scared of being punished?"

Her bottom lip quivers. He's got his answer.

Dispensing with the pretense of protocol, he promptly gets to his feet and hops onto the bed next to her, gathering her in his arms, wanting so desperately to comfort her, to show her she's safe. "Gunther, he's gone. He's never going to hurt you again."

To his relief, she doesn't resist the contact; indeed, she starts to cry unreservedly, shaking her head, hiccupping as she speaks. "H-he… he was right. I-I don't deserve… I sh-shouldn't be here."

"Shh… shh… it's okay, it's okay. What you don't deserve is what he did to you. It's nonsense what he told you. All you've ever done was help people, Olivia."

She jerks out of his arms, violently. "No I haven't! I've destroyed them!"

He's aghast by her outburst. It's one thing for a victim to blame herself for her attack; it's quite another for her to latch onto a theory of her culpability that is literally false. "That couldn't be farther from the truth!"

"You're wrong!" she exclaims defiantly, shaking her head, dismissing him.

Terrified she'll kick him out again, he puts up his hands. "Okay, it's okay. Let's just… sit, figure this out, okay?"

Mollified, she appears to acquiesce. "Okay."

Relieved to have averted a meltdown, he takes a breath, understanding, now, what her trigger is. "I saw Maureen last night. She told me you two had lunch."

There's a flicker of recognition at the mention of his daughter. "It was months ago," she says flatly, the implicit message clear: things have changed since then.

He's glad, all the same, that she's even acknowledging the event took place. He takes nothing about her cognition for granted. "I didn't know you liked sushi," he says casually, hoping for a segue back into the topic of food. He's suddenly fixated by the need to feed her. She's looking physically gaunt to him and it's rather obvious she's ravenous. Also, it's something tangible he can actually _do _to help her_: _of the myriad ways in which she's been made to suffer, hunger is the easiest to fix.

He waits for her to say something. He stares at her, at the way her chest rises and falls beneath the crisp white sheet. He thinks her collar bone is protruding a little more prominently than usual, though he knows, rationally, that whatever weight she's lost couldn't possibly be visible after only a week. He shudders again, thinking about what she's been through physically and mentally, about how he needs to tread carefully, be patient with her. He gestures at a breakfast tray that clearly hasn't been touched. "Supposing you had a bit of that toast, Liv. What do you think would happen to you?"

"Stop it," she says.

"Honey, a person can't survive without food."

"He'll know I ate. He'll know I disobeyed."

He's heard this sort of talk before – he's dealt with hundreds of victims, each traumatized in their own unique way – but all the same he can't help blurt out the one-size-fits-all rhetoric, the line that has come from his own lips as many times as it has hers: "He won't hurt you again, ever. I'll make sure of it."

"He didn't hurt me."

His eyes widen. Of all things, he hadn't figured she'd disagree about _that. _"He beat you incessantly. He starved you. That's hurting, where I come from."

"I told you. It was for a purpose. It's different," she insists. "I had finally earned his trust. I was worthy."

"Olivia, what kind of man makes a person starve and take beatings to prove their trustworthiness?"

"You don't understand. I finally… deserved him."

He sighs, wishing so badly he knew what to say to snap her out of this. He's dealt with cult victims before and knows how frustrating it can be to get through to them. He just never figured that Olivia, his personal hero and the love of his life, would be one of the people he'd have to persuade. "Oh honey, you deserve so much more than him. He's a loser who preys on women." He leans closer, his breath nearly hitting her pale skin. "I think you know you weren't meant to live like this," he says quietly. "What God would want you to die of starvation?"

"Stop being so melodramatic, Elliot. I won't _die_. This is just a test."

"A test? Of what?"

"My discipline."

"I think you've proven you have discipline, Olivia. You've sacrificed so much for your job. You've sacrificed your happiness, your personal life. It took dedication and discipline to do that."

"You're twisting things. I did it for personal gain, for vanity, for my ego. It's not the same thing."

He slouches on the bed, his bravado seeping out of him, as it sinks in that he really isn't equipped to help her. For once, he sees the utility in professional help.

But what he can do is be here. Show her he isn't going to abandon her, that he's here to support her, no matter what.

"Okay," he starts. "Maybe, can we just sit together then? Will you let me stay here with you, keep you company?"

She thinks about it. He watches her do it. He can practically see the argument taking place inside her head: she wants him to stay, but she's also wary she will be breaking her captor's rules.

Finally, to his utter relief, she accedes to the request. "Okay."

"Good. Thank you."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

A half-hour later of nonsense TV, Elliot finally musters the courage to talk to her again. He mutes the set with the remote and turns to her. "You know, I don't think I ever told you how much I valued our partnership."

"Then why did you leave?"

Although he feels the answer is fairly obvious, he also knows it's not an entirely unreasonable question. In fact, its layered depth and the undercurrent of hurt it betrays suggest there is a some part of her that is still here with him, still mourning their relationship. Sad as it makes him feel, it's a good sign.

"Because I couldn't face you," he tells her honestly. "After what I'd done, I just… I couldn't look you in the eye."

"Me? Why did you care what I thought?"

This is it. The opening he'd hoped for. All at once nervous as a teenager, he takes a deep breath, counts down from three. And says it.

"Because I love you."

She squints at him, cocks her head, as if trying to decide if he's serious. "No you don't."

"Excuse me?"

"You don't love me. How could you?"

"What do you mean, how could I? Because I do. I love you with all my heart."

"But I've never had a child."

He freezes. His first instinct is of course to argue with her, tell her how ridiculous she sounds.

But as he begins to formulate the words it will take to gently – he doesn't want to antagonize her – reject her reasoning, it all finally clicks. The bizarre, seemingly nonsensical comments about what she's done with her life. The reasons she thinks she'd needed to win Gunther's – of all people's – approval. He thinks he finally understands how her captor got under her skin. "You think you're only lovable if you give birth to a child?"

"You've read the Bible. It's what God wants."

It all makes sense now. She had sex with Gunther because she wanted to get pregnant. It was still rape – for the sake of the partner he knows is still in there somewhere, he will _never _accept that this was not duress – but he understands, now, why she's been so adamant. In her mind, Gunther was her only ticket to a child. To what she now believes is her only redemption.

He takes a second to consider his response. There's no use telling her he now questions his own religion, let alone God's existence. "Well regardless, _I _love you. No matter what, okay? And Olivia, you can still have a child, if you want one."

_I would be honored to father your child, _he thinks impulsively_._

"You still don't get it," she hisses. "It's not a matter of _wanting._ It's not my decision."

"Whose decision is it?"

"It's God's."

He sees he needs to pick his battles. Arguing this point is not the way to get through to her. "Okay," he says conciliatorily.

He sits back and takes her in again. Even like this, she's still so, so beautiful. All at once he's overwhelmed by love, by intense gratitude that she survived, that she's here with him at all, however damaged, however broken. No matter how heartbreaking it is to see her like this, no matter how much time and patience it will take to help her recover, even if it takes him the rest of his life, it's nothing compared to how destroyed he would be if she hadn't made it. The full weight of the realization bears down on him, stuns him, and he stares at her for full, intense seconds, vividly captivated by her presence, by her… _aliveness._

She looks at him expectantly. Curious, he supposes, about whether the conversation about children is over.

He blinks, snapping out of the temporary glow, suddenly gripped anew by the possibility that has hovered at the periphery of his mind since that terrible moment yesterday when Cragen announced her decision.

_What if that bastard got her pregnant?_

If she wanted the child, he would welcome it too. If she would have him, he would raise it with her, treat it as his own. He would do anything she wanted.

He just can't help but think: what a dimension that would add to her recovery.

He eyes her again, his gaze traveling from her flat stomach beneath the sheet, to the delicate column of her throat. The exposed flesh is marred by several healing bruises, visible vestiges of that sickening noose that came within a hair of ending it all.

And then something occurs to him, something practical, and he wonders if she's rational enough to hear it. "You know, it's awfully hard to get pregnant if you're not eating. You'll lose your period."

She stares at him blankly. He can tell the logic of what he's said is making its way through her warped mind, that she's trying to process it, trying to reconcile it with everything Gunther has told her. For a second, there's a flicker of something in her eyes – Doubt? Comprehension? Reason? – and he thinks he's finally gotten through to her. He thinks, perhaps, that the old Olivia is back, that he has managed to break through.

"If Gods wants it, he'll find a way."


	17. Chapter 17

"No…"

Elliot opens his eyes, for a second unsure where he is. His stiff back duly reminds him: in a hard metal chair next to Olivia's hospital bed. It is 4:06 a.m.

They have let him sleep over in her room, even though he's not family and he's not her husband. Not to mention the patient herself was indifferent – bordering on hostile – at the prospect of an overnight guest. He suspects Cragen pulled some strings. He doesn't question it.

He glances over at Olivia, who is agitated in her sleep. Another murmur escapes her lips. "No…."

Concerned by her distress, he tentatively approaches her bedside and leans over her. "Liv?"

"Please…."

"Liv, it's okay. Wake up, honey."

She gasps a little, and yanks her head to the right. "Mom!"

x-x-x-x-x

When he reawakens later, it's after eight o'clock, and she's not in her bed.

He looks around, wondering if they've taken her for treatment of some kind. Last he heard, she needed simple rest and monitoring.

He goes to the nurse's station, where he inquires as to Olivia's whereabouts.

The diminutive twenty-eight-year-old on staff has no idea what he's talking about.

Seconds later, Elliot's on the phone with Cragen.

x-x-x-x-x

It takes fourteen minutes for Cragen to arrive, and another sixteen for him to mobilize a response team, including a member from tech, who will analyze security footage to assess whether Gunther somehow made it in undetected. During this time Elliot is paralyzed in fear and guilt – the least he could have done after insisting on spending the night semi-unwelcomed was to protect her – but Cragen insists it's highly unlikely Gunther would show his face here, let alone engineer a kidnapping. It's not his wheelhouse. Elliot hears the logic, but can't bring himself to tell his former boss the likelier, more chilling scenario: that Olivia willingly left to go find her captor.

The acerbic-mannered overnight nurse is summoned back to work for stern questioning. Grouchy and defensive and clearly shaken, she's adamant nobody unauthorized could have entered the ward while she was on duty. And besides, she says, looking pointedly at Elliot, it was her understanding that Olivia was at no time left alone.

Once the process is in place, Cragen and Elliot search the hospital together, floor by floor. It's an eerie déjà vu to a mere two days ago, when they searched the gloomy schoolbuilding, calling Olivia's name through the echoed corridors. Although the circumstances are different now – a few seconds are much less likely to make the difference between life and death – Elliot's level of franticness is starting to rival what he felt then.

All at once, there's a crackling on Cragen's radio, and the voice of one of the unis deployed in the hospital search party comes to life. "Captain, I found her!"

"Where?! State your position, officer!"

"Eighth floor, maternity ward."

Cragen scowls impatiently. "What room?"

"It's, uh, a utility closet, sir. You better come."

Elliot and Cragen take one look at each other, and bolt for the stairwell.

x-x-x-x-x

A rookie named McCauley is bending over Olivia when they find the location. It's a shoebox of a room containing janitorial supplies, tucked away between an office and the premie nursery. He looks up as they arrive, relief plastered on his face. "She's, uh, she says she wants to be left alone."

The only thing that keeps Elliot from exploding at McCauley for trying to engage her is the look of terror on Olivia's face.

Elliot nods grimly. He approaches the pair, implicitly relieving McCauley of his duty. McCauley backs away gratefully.

Olivia is kneeling on the floor in the darkened space. She's hunched over, nearly prostrate, her face hitting the tops of her thighs. Her bandaged upper back is fully exposed, thanks to the slit in her hospital gown that her position on the floor has stretched open.

She's shaking visibly.

"Liv?" he asks, keeping a small distance.

She doesn't respond.

He tries again, keeping his tone as gentle as he can manage, given his rising panic. "Liv, can you hear me?"

Cragen, standing behind them, frowns. He is inclined to intercede, somehow, but Elliot seems to sense this and looks up at him from his position in front of her, warning him not to. Cragen nods.

"Liv?" Elliot starts again. "Honey, I need you to come with me, okay?"

Still no response from Olivia, who starts to bow fervently up and down, her movements frenzied.

Elliot sighs, makes a decision. "Okay, come on." He proceeds to crawl behind her and grasp her by the underarms.

Before Cragen has a chance to protest the peremptory tactic, Elliot has hoisted her to her feet. "Let's go."

Cragen raises an eyebrow at Elliot's audacity. He's never seen his detective force a victim – however gently – to do anything. And yet this is the only treatment to which Olivia seems responsive.

Together, they walk her back to her room. The whole time her neck is tucked and she stares at the floor like a shamed child.

x-x-x-x-x-x

Later, Cragen and Elliot sit in the sallow hospital cafeteria, drinking terrible coffee.

Cragen starts to say something, then hesitates. He picks at a muffin.

"What?" Elliot asks.

"We're going to need to interview her."

"Captain, she's too fragile right now. She needs –"

"Elliot, they're all fragile."

"Don't call her _they."_

Cragen sighs. "I'm sorry. Look, it doesn't need to be today, but when she's released, she'll have to come to the station. The good news is I've cleared things with the brass. It'll be us."

"Let me take it."

Cragen suppresses a derisive cackle. Elliot is no longer his employee; he has no right to chastise him for suggesting a procedurally inappropriate course of action. He looks at the disheveled, red-eyed man in front of him, so profoundly devastated. He thinks of Olivia, of how badly she's suffered, and all at once he's utterly grateful somebody who loves her is here for her, prepared to passionately protect and defend her. "I'm sorry," Cragen responds gently. "I'll have to have Amaro do it."

"Amaro's a fucking rookie," Elliot blurts impulsively.

Again, Cragen manages to contain himself. This is not his detective speaking, he reminds himself; it's the family of the victim. He deserves respect, not least because Elliot is the only person, he believes, who can help Olivia recover. "I'll let that slide, under the circumstances."

To his credit, Elliot composes himself. "Can I at least be in the room with her?"

Cragen shakes his head. "I'm sorry. I can't let you… guide her."

"_Guide _her? She's not a five-year-old!"

"Look, let's not play games. We both know you're afraid she's going to put on the record that she wasn't raped."

"Damned straight I am!"

"And if that's what she puts on the record, then we'll deal with it," Cragen says, not unkindly. "Believe me, _nobody _thinks she wasn't coerced. But if the statement we get from her is tainted – or can be construed as tainted in any way – it's even worse for her. You do understand that, right?"

Elliot shakes his head pleadingly. "Please don't make her do this. She's not ready."

Cragen sighs sadly. "Amaro's good," he says softly. "I trust him. She trusts him too. I'll have Huang sit in, if that makes you feel better."

For some reason, it does. Whatever their differences in the past, the idea of Huang's presence in the room as a surrogate gives Elliot some relief. "She isn't… she isn't a normal victim," he says tentatively.

"I understand that."

"No, I don't mean because she's one of us. I mean because she genuinely believes nothing criminal happened to her."

"And all the evidence will show she's been tortured and manipulated. But that evidence will be useless if a jury never sees it because it gets thrown out on a technicality." Cragen fixes his eyes straight on Elliot. "I'm warning you, don't let your emotions make you do something stupid. Let this play out. She'll get justice. I give you my word."

x-x-x-x-x

Forty-eight hours after her admission, Olivia is released from the hospital, with a stern – and probably useless – lecture from Doctor Shapiro about eating to regain her strength. Elliot blows a gasket yelling about the recklessness of this decision, but Doctor Shapiro, who is not unsympathetic, points out that Olivia has been cleared medically and that the hospital is not equipped to provide the sort of ongoing care she requires.

Implicit in the rebuttal is that what she really needs is counseling.

Elliot can't say he disagrees, but it means it's up to him, now, to figure out the next steps in her recovery. Because Olivia herself is in no state to do so for herself.

Trouble is, he doesn't quite know where to start. Which becomes obvious before they even leave the hospital parking lot.

As they approach Elliot's car, his arm snaked around her waist – he's literally worried she will faint – Olivia turns to him, puzzled. "You're going to drive me home?"

He's crestfallen. "I thought I would stay with you for a bit, help you out," he says casually. She stares at him blankly and he feels his cheeks start to flush. "I thought I'd, you know, sleep on your couch."

Seemingly mystified, she asks, "You need a place to stay? Did Kathy kick you out?"

The rejection is biting. He has to remind himself pointedly she's not in her right mind. It's not that she's being stoic and proud; she genuinely _believes _she's fine.

This is also the first it has occurred to him that she has the legal right to turn him away and that there will be little he can do if she chooses to exercise that right. He is not her husband, not her guardian, and she has not been ruled incompetent.

But as he takes in her pallor, her sunken, haunted eyes, fear for her wellbeing abruptly eclipses self-pity. She's clearly in no condition to be by herself. He needs to convince her to let him stay with her.

But the last thing he wants to do is upset her, and so he needs to be pragmatic: the end goal is to make sure she's not alone tonight; how he achieves this ought to be his lowest priority.

"Yeah," he says sheepishly, "Kathy kicked me out."

x-x-x-x-x

He has succeeded. After an elaborate story of his marriage travails – all true, except for their recentness, she has acquiesced to let him stay.

It's been surreal to watch her interact with her own home. Her reaction to her own possessions – furniture, kitchen items, clothing – has not only been one of confoundment, it's bordered on hostile.

"What are you doing?" he asks, as he watches her, all business, yank the coffeemaker cord from its outlet and gather the appliance in her arms.

"Getting rid of this," she answers matter-of-factly.

"Why?"

She looks at him quizzically. "Because I don't want coffee."

"Okay," he says evenly. He watches her carefully. Her response can be interpreted in a number of ways: she doesn't want coffee _right_ _now, _in which case the shortsightedness of her decision would suggest a level of mental incompetence he hopes is not the case. The alternative, however, frightens him even more: that she's decided to give up coffee – her favorite beverage – for good. Not for any rational reason, such as caffeine or health, mind you, but rather to please Gunther. Her bizarre use of the simple present tense notwithstanding, this is precisely what he believes is her intent.

He clears his throat nonchalantly. "Liv, maybe can you keep it so I can have some in the morning?"

She sighs with theatrical exasperation, and plunks the machine back onto the countertop. "Fine."

"Should we order some dinner?" he suggests, girding himself for her inevitable answer.

Sure enough: "You can, but I don't want anything."

Not, he notes, _I'm not hungry._

He takes a step toward her, bracing himself for her wrath, reminding himself all the same that he has no choice but to intervene. If he doesn't, nobody will. "You have to have something to eat, Liv. You haven't eaten in days."

"I'm _fine_, Elliot."

Despite the sharpness of her tone, the use of his name heartens him. Sadly, he no longer takes it for granted that she knows who he is. He quickly closes the space between them, careful to keep his body language open and unthreatening. Gaining her trust by physically intimidating her – however receptive she apparently is to such treatment – is not something he will resort to. Instead, he cups her biceps in his palms, bending his knees so that he is at her level. She is several inches shorter but has always worn some kind of heel in his presence. For the first time in their relationship, he is aware of how much smaller she is compared to him. Physically, they are not equals. "Sweetheart, I need you to listen to me. This man, this _criminal,_ assaulted you. He broke the law. You understand that, don't you? Can you appreciate that?"

He sees confusion, doubt flicker across her face as she processes his comment. At least she hasn't rejected it outright. It's a start. "I'm just… I don't know what to think," she whispers, not meeting his eyes.

He gently reaches out, tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. He chooses his next words carefully. "Do you trust me, Liv?"

She hesitates. "I… I think I do."

"What kind of person starves and beats another person? What kind of God _commands _a person to do that to another human being?"

She nods, tears welling in her eyes. His heart breaks watching her cry, but he has to remind himself it's a good sign: he's breaking through.

"My mind says what he did was wrong," she starts. "But I…I…"

"It's okay, go on."

"I keep feeling like… like he was there for a reason, you know? Like I found him for a reason."

"What reason?"

"To make me see I'd failed."

"Olivia, you do more good every single week than most people ever do in a lifetime. You've devoted your life to saving other people. How do I make you understand that?"

"I may have saved people but I also hurt them. I preached so many things to so many women."

"Everything you told them was to help them."

She shakes her head. "No," she weeps, tears streaming down her face. "I deserved everything he did to me."

"Do you really believe that?"

The sobbing takes on a more frantic tone now, as she lets it overtake her, wracking her body with tremors. "Elliot, I just want to die. I want to die."

He gathers her in his arms, rubs her back lightly, mindful of her still-healing wounds. "Don't say that, sweetheart. Never say that."

"I don't have anything to live for," she whispers, burying her face in his shoulder.

He pulls back from the embrace, enough to look down at her, meet her gaze, try to convey with his eyes the love he feels for her, and the gut-wrenching loss he would feel without her. "You do, Liv. You've made such a difference in so many people's lives."

_In my life, _he wants to say. _I can't live without you. I see that now._

"I've never had children. It's my _fault_ that I never did."

"No, honey, it's not."

It's the wrong thing to say.

She pulls away violently, shrieks at him. "So what are you saying? That it's _God'_s fault?"

"No!" he exclaims, horrified. "I'm saying it was never the right – "

"I could've had a child if I hadn't been so selfish! I had so many years to do it! And I _didn't._ I _didn't! _The one thing it was crystal clear I was required to do! _You _did it, _you _understood the commandment, so don't tell me you didn't believe it was important! Gunther can punish me or God can!"

"Olivia, you've spent your entire life saving children. I _killed _a child."

"It's different," she scoffs. "It wasn't your fault. You had no choice."

"And what choice did you have?"

"I had all the choices in the world! All those years. Any man, any partner! I could've had a child."

"That's not what it's all about. Anyone can make a baby. But a child needs more than just birth. You knew your child deserved a father. You knew this, because you deserved one too and you never had one. You wanted to spare your child the pain that you suffered. A child was the only thing in the world you really wanted and you denied yourself that, Olivia, because you couldn't raise a child without a good father."

He watches as she considers his words, processing them, weighing them against the alternate, conflicting narrative she has in her head.

And then she takes a step back, and shakes her head sadly.

And Elliot knows he's lost her again.


	18. Chapter 18

"Can you tell me what happened after Dwight took you away from the room with the children?"

Amaro tries to catch her eye as he poses the question, but Olivia's gaze is downcast.

Elliot shifts on his feet outside the interrogation room, watching as she fidgets. They've been in there for over thirty minutes – she, Amaro and Huang – and he is desperate to know what is going through her head. Her narrative, so far, has been related emotionlessly.

Cragen, who has been standing next to him behind the two-way glass, is stone-faced.

"Dwight brought me to a smaller room, like a converted office," she says. "It had this… altar."

"Altar?"

She closes her eyes, remembering. Her affect has been flat up to this point, but now her voice noticeably shakes. "Y-yeah. Some kind of – of structure. It had a metal beam, maybe a foot above my head."

"Okay, go on…"

"Gunther and Dwight were there, with two of the women I'd met earlier in the day – Catherine and Agnes. Gunther asked if I repented. I didn't know what he meant."

She pauses.

"What happened next?" Amaro prods.

From behind the glass, Elliot detects a quiver to Olivia's bottom lip. "He, um, he had a cane. He showed it to me."

Elliot exhales into the glass. "Oh God."

"A cane?" Amaro asks.

"It – it, uh, wicker, I think. I don't really remember it very well."

"What did he do with it?"

Her eyes flit to the floor. Elliot desperately wants to go in there, to comfort her. But at the same time he has a morbid need to hear what she's about to say.

"Olivia? What did he do with the cane?"

Olivia's eyes snap back to Amaro's face. "He… they… handcuffed my wrists to the metal beam above my head. They… th-th-th-they took a knife and cut my shirt off."

In twelve years of working together, Elliot has never heard Olivia stutter. _Ever_. It's the most disconcerting thing he's ever witnessed. "Fuck," he breathes.

Beside him, Cragen wordlessly lays a comforting palm on his upper arm.

"Then, they, uh, they…"

"They…?" Amaro helpfully provides.

"They whipped me," she whispers hoarsely.

"Where?"

"On my back."

Elliot flinches.

Amaro, for his part, doesn't miss a beat. "How many times?"

She looks up, meets Amaro's eyes for the first time. "I stopped counting after twenty."

"Jesus," Cragen mutters.

Amaro doesn't blink, but his voice is laced with gentle sympathy. "Who whipped you?"

"Look, I really don't want to –"

"Olivia. Who did it?"

"G-gunther did."

"With the cane."

"Yes, but it was only because –" She seems to realize mid-sentence any hint of a defense of Gunther will not resonate, that her colleagues won't see it as she does. She sighs, defeated. "Yes, with the cane." A giant teardrop suddenly and conspicuously leaks out of her eye.

Elliot turns to Cragen. "Captain! He's upsetting her!"

Cragen's gaze never leaves Olivia. "Give him a chance."

Elliot glances to his right. Cragen is as distraught as he is.

"What happened next?" Amaro asks.

"I, I, uh, passed out from the pain. When I came to, Catherine and Agnes were taking me down the hall to the room."

"Were you able to walk?"

She looks at her lap. "They had to help me."

"Did they clean the wounds on your back?"

She seems perplexed by the question. "No, why would they?"

"Okay." Amaro pauses. "What did the room look like?"

"It was dark."

"Dark?"

"Just… yeah, dark. Dark and silent."

"You couldn't see or hear anything?" Huang interjects.

Olivia looks to the heretofore silent man, as if she'd forgotten he was there. There's a note of resigned exhaustion in her expression, as if she now has the burden of fending off a tag-team.

"Nothing," she confirms. "It was like having my eyes closed."

Elliot turns to Cragen. "Sensory deprivation."

Cragen's expression is gravelly. "Yeah."

"How often did they come?" Huang asks.

"I… I don't know. It's where I –"

"Where you what?"

Elliot braces himself for the answer he's expecting. _Where I had sex with Gunther. _He suppresses an urge to punch the glass. _It was rape, goddamit! It was rape!_

"Where I was punished."

Elliot looks up.

"You mean they hit you again?" Amaro asks.

"Of course."

"After having caned you?" Amaro clarifies, unable to completely mask his dismay at this revelation.

"Well not _right _afterwards. But yeah, a bunch of times after that."

"How many times?"

"I don't know."

"More than five?"

"Oh yes."

"More than ten?"

She thinks for a second, taking the question at face value. "Maybe. Probably. I lost track."

"How did they punish you?"

"They… th-they, uh, had different ways."

"Did they hit you with other objects?"

She hangs her head in shame, unable to meet Amaro's eyes. "Yes."

"And were there other kinds of…" Amaro now hesitates, finally displaying his discomfort with the line of questioning. "…of punishments?" he finishes.

This time when she answers, her voice carries a note of defiant resilience to it. "You have to understand, all of it was so that I could learn discipline."

To his credit, Amaro takes her answer at face value. "What kind of discipline?"

"To, uh, to respect him. To respect God."

"Why did you need discipline to respect God?" Amaro asks reasonably.

_Not bad, _Elliot thinks, impressed.

But Olivia doesn't respond, and Amaro doesn't press her. "What else happened in the room?"

"Nothing. It's just where I stayed."

"The whole time?"

"Yes."

"What about to use the bathroom?"

A flush forms on her face as she thinks about it. "I don't… um…. remember…"

_Please don't press her on that, _Elliot prays. _She's been humiliated enough._

Cragen turns to him. "If they were starving her, it's a good bet they were only giving her the bare minimum of water too. She probably hardly had to go."

"Yeah."

Amaro, thankfully, moves on. "Was there a bed in the room? Furniture?"

"No."

"So you slept on the floor?"

"Yes."

"Did you have a blanket? A pillow?"

"What? No, of course not!" she exclaims.

Huang finally pipes up. "Why do you say it like that? You don't think the question was reasonable?"

She glares at Huang. "I told you. I was there to _learn._"

"Okay, right. To learn."

"Stop patronizing me," she snaps.

Elliot shoots a glance at Cragen. The rebuke is reminiscent of the Olivia they know. She's still in there somewhere, he thinks. There's hope.

Huang doesn't miss a beat. "I'm not, Olivia. I'm just trying to get a picture of how you spent all those days." He pauses. "So you were saying. You didn't leave the room."

"Not at first. I was there to learn discipline."

"Okay. Tell me what kind. Give me an example."

She considers the question. "H-he- uh, wouldn't let me wear a shirt."

Nick leans forward, his eyes full of sympathy. "Was that when he raped you?"

Elliot takes in a sharp breath.

Olivia, predictably, is annoyed. "What! I told you, I had sex with him. It wasn't rape. And anyway, we didn't do it in that room!"

Amaro puts up his hands. "Okay, okay. So you were saying, you weren't allowed a shirt. What did that have to do with… discipline?"

"I had to learn my needs were subordinate to God's."

"Your needs? For modesty?"

She stares at him, puzzled. "No."

"Then what?"

A cloud passes over her face. Elliot is disconcerted by the abrupt shift in demeanor. She is deeply ashamed, he sees, but the terror on her face belies the misguided reason: she's ashamed she was not strong enough to pass whatever test she is about to describe. A test the lessons of which she still agrees were worth learning.

She starts to shake, struggling to articulate herself. "It was so stupid, I just… I wanted…"

Amaro gives her time to gather herself, but she continues to stutter.

Elliot clenches his hands into fists, leaning against the two-way glass. Watching her endure such questioning is torture. He wants to burst in there and get her out of there, and to hell with the interview.

Huang finally intercedes. "Olivia, what are you trying to say?"

Her eyes flit from Huang to Amaro, and then back to Huang. Searching, for something. An ally? Understanding?

And then, right before every man she works with, she does something she's never once done in the dozen years Elliot's known her: she bursts into tears.

"Normally it would've been fine," she manages between sobs. She hunches over in her seat, curling into herself. Her exposed collar bone rattles against the lavender fabric of her boat-neck top as violent tremors wrack her body. Elliot helped pick out her clothes for her this morning. She was too overwhelmed by the choices in her own closet.

"What would?" Huang asks.

"Not having a shirt. But he…he... he…"

Amaro unceremoniously hands her a Kleenex. "He what?"

"H-he'd… put me on a fast. So it was harder t-to-to…"

"Take your time," Huang says patiently.

"It was harder… I tried… I swear, I tried!"

She's apparently oblivious to the fact they don't know what she's talking about.

Huang, ever-patient, asks, "You tried to what?"

"I just… I was so… so…"

"So what?"

"So… _hungry,_" she chokes.

Elliot puts a hand over his mouth as a wave of nausea overtakes him. He doesn't know how much more of this he can take. He wants to be in there with her, hold her, take her pain, tell her she doesn't have to talk anymore.

"Okay… what does that have to do with wanting a shirt?" Huang asks.

Finally, she looks up at Huang with enormous, haunted eyes. She sniffles one more time and then says stoically, "I guess without food my body temperature was down."

Elliot forcefully pushes air out of his lungs. He focuses on instructing his legs to hold him up. Beside him, Cragen covers his face with his palms.

Amaro's poker face finally cracks, the innocence of her statement more powerful than anything she's confided thus far. He can't resist a grimace, squaring his jaw. "You wanted a shirt because you were cold."

Olivia nods in shame, and starts to weep anew.

x-x-x-x-x

After her account of what she thought was day two – she had no sense of the passage of time in the room – they gave her a break from the questions. They were as much in need of it as she was.

Later, Amaro returned to resume questioning. This time, Cragen went in there too. He didn't speak, didn't question her. Just sat and listened.

As she described her transformation.

From skeptic to believer.

Oblivious to the blatant brainwashing that had taken place, to how her own mind had been manipulated. The days of sensory deprivation, of hunger, of cold, of brutal beatings, had all conspired to warp her sense of reality.

And yet none of it had been undone by her rescue, by the abrupt cessation to all the violence she had suffered.

The supposed infractions for which she had earned punishment – "abuse," was the term Elliot preferred, though he was careful not to use it in front of her – were infinitesimally minor; manufactured and imagined excuses to beat and assault her, designed to keep her perpetually on edge, in fear.

And they hadn't even covered the rapes.

As Elliot emerges from the elevator, still haunted by her story, he looks at the door in front of him with a surge of hope, and knocks.

x-x-x-x

"Elliot?"

Huang swings his door fully open, allowing Elliot to pass.

"Thanks, Doc, for seeing me on such short notice." He hesitates, taking in the surroundings of Dr. Huang's comfortable apartment. He's never been here before. "She had a follow-up appointment at the hospital, and they said it would take up to an hour, and your place is only six blocks –"

"You don't have to defend why you left her alone," Huang interrupts. He gestures towards the couch. "Have a seat."

Elliot nods. "I know we've had our differences in the past, but I – I just needed –"

"It's okay," Huang says warmly. "I know you're going through something rough. Wanna talk about it?"

Elliot plunks himself onto the couch. He takes a breath, and rubs his face with his palms, then addresses Huang. "How did this happen to her? How could she get broken this severely in so few days?"

Huang takes a seat on the arm chair perpendicular to Elliot. "It's been known to happen in as few as 72 hours," he says quietly.

"But she's –"

"Strong, I know. And you have to continue to think of her that way. This wasn't a sign of weakness. This isn't who she really is."

"I know, I know that. I would never think that of her."

Huang leans forward in his seat. "I have no doubt you have the utmost respect for her. But I wouldn't think less of you if you felt frustration over her behavior, over why she won't just snap out of this."

"She's obviously been traumatized deeply."

Huang nods. "Just remember, she's in there somewhere, and she'll pick up on your doubt."

Elliot takes a moment to process the comment. Then he says, "I always worried about her, you know. In this line of work, the danger she put herself in, the chances she would be assaulted at some point..."

"You were a good partner," Huang says quietly.

"But I never expected this."

"This?"

"I thought that if something terrible happened to her – if she were attacked – that she would at least acknowledge that…."

"That?"

"That she'd been victimized." Elliot swallows. "I just don't understand it. How could she possibly believe this garbage Gunther fed her?"

Huang lets a moment of silence pass. "Have you ever been beaten, Elliot?"

Elliot chortles. "Are you serious? You know how many perps have thrown punches –"

"No, I don't mean beaten _up. _I mean beaten, with an object, for a sustained period of time, where you couldn't do anything to shield yourself from the blows."

He thinks, nods slowly. "Once. My father. With his belt. I was eleven."

"How did it feel?"

"How did it _feel? _It hurt like hell."

"Well how did you stand it? What did you do to make your mind tolerate it?"

He considers the question sincerely. An inadvertent shudder ripples through his body as he remembers that terrible day. The searing pain, the helplessness. "I… I couldn't stand it," he admits. "It was the worst pain I'd ever endured in my life. Still is."

"How many minutes, roughly, do you think it went on for?"

"Oh jeez, I don't know. It felt like forever, but probably only a few. Three, four. Maybe five."

Huang nods. "You say you couldn't stand it. But you _did _stand it. You had to; you had no choice but to stand it."

"I guess you're right."

"And so what if it had gone on longer? What if it had been ten, twenty minutes?"

"I would've fought back," Elliot answers quickly.

"Let's say you were restrained."

"Well I –"

"Let's say, for whatever reason, you had no ability to fight back. Let's say you _knew _the only choice you had was to _take_ it, for however long he _wanted _it to go on for."

Elliot is floored by the concept; fighting back is the tool he's relied upon all his life. "Then I… I don't think I could've sustained it. I guess I would've passed out."

"And supposing he would've done it again the next day, maybe several times. And suppose he would've done it in a different way, let's say, and the pain would've been even more excruciating. Supposing you would've been locked in a room alone, never knowing when he was going to come back and do it to you again."

"I see what you're getting at, but it doesn't explain why she _believes _in him."

Huang nods. "Exactly right. So now, suppose you faced a choice between those beatings and, say, groveling at his feet, or saying humiliating things, things that truly compromised your dignity, that went against your core identity. What would you choose?"

Elliot doesn't hesitate. "I would choose the beatings."

"Yeah," Huang agrees. "And I'll bet ten to one she did too. Which is why she was beaten so severely. The other women, who were cherry-picked for their malleability, were probably much easier to break. After one whipping, they were done. But remember, Olivia was a victim of opportunity; he may even have seen her as a special challenge. He knew breaking her would be difficult, and so he may have been especially cruel to her. But even for someone like Olivia, it was only a matter of time before she was made to beg, made to say the things he wanted her to say."

So arresting is the image of his poor partner, brought down so profoundly, that a pensive "Hmm…" is all he can manage.

"After that, it would've been easy to condition her," Huang adds.

"So it was be degraded and humiliated, or be beaten," Elliot says.

"Exactly."

"But they were just words," Elliot argues. "She could've said the words, without actually believing them."

"It didn't happen right away. In the beginning she would've just been telling him what he wanted to hear. And Gunther would've known that. Which is why he probably started to blur the line, to confuse her, keep her guessing. So maybe they tag-teamed; maybe Gunther was sometimes nice to her, while the other guy carried out the beatings."

"Makes sense. Gunther probably played the good guy."

"Right. But the fact that she knew he was capable of extreme cruelty was a key part of the manipulation. The cruelty was complemented by kindness; eventually a new code of behavior emerged in her mind, one associated with the 'kind' Gunther, the other with the 'cruel'. The discipline she talks about started out as self-protection. She was just being pragmatic, trying to figure out how not to trigger a punishment. But after enough repetition, enough reinforcement of good-behavior-equals-groveling-equals-no-punishmen t, it all started to make sense in her mind. Because she had to _make _it make sense, to survive."

Tears spontaneously flood Elliot's eyes. He shakes his head. "My God."

"And keep in mind, too, the terrible conditions she was kept in also played a role."

"She said that the room was dead-silent and completely dark."

Huang nods. "Studies show a person can be driven mad by prolonged deprivation from light and sound."

A memory, distinct and recent and sharp, suddenly hits him, and he marvels this is the first it has occurred to him: A few years ago, he spent three days in solitary confinement. It had been voluntary; an experiment, of sorts. He'd known with certainty he was going to get out. There had been light in the room, a toilet, three square meals a day and he had had clean clothes to wear. Even so, the solitude and the boredom had nearly driven him insane.

Elliot can't stifle a whimper. "My God, she would've been out of her mind," he chokes out.

"No question. That alone would've done the trick, but don't forget the final element to ensure her compliance, her complete submission."

"What's that?" he asks with dread.

"They weren't feeding her."

Elliot grimaces. "Of course."

"Hunger alone can cause delirium, hallucinations."

A surge of red-hot fury courses through him, suddenly. "And they wouldn't give her a fucking shirt."

Huang nods regretfully. "No food, no clothes, no light, no mental stimulation, in a perpetual state of fear of bodily harm. All the ingredients to strip a person of her sanity."

"And her humanity."

"Point taken."

"Fucking monsters," Elliot mutters, his voice charged with rage. He pictures throwing Gunther into a pit. He pictures tearing the limbs from his body, one by one, as Gunther screams for mercy. He pictures flogging him with a cane, with the full force of his brawny biceps.

The pictures in his mind make him feel better, give him a modicum of satisfaction, a sense of control.

That is, until it really hits him: the reality of what his partner has endured, and the futility of the revenge fantasy in his head. Even if he sends Gunther to the depths of hell, it will not change what has happened to her, and it will not help her recover. He lets out a strangled gasp at his own helplessness. "Oh God," he moans. "God dammit. God _dammit. _It must have been…. It must've been…. indescribable hell."

Huang qualifies the statement. "At first."

Elliot whips his head up, startled. "What?"

"Later, after a few days of this treatment, he probably started to give her a few scraps of food here and there, which would've been presented as some sort of reward for good behavior."

Elliot narrows his eyes at Huang, fixing a furious glare at him. "Are you suggesting, _Doctor, _that after acclimating to such horrific abuse that she started to _like _it?"

"Absolutely not. I'm suggesting that she started to understand it. That she not only learned to live by the rules, but that she also agreed with those rules. When a person is so utterly deprived of their basic human needs and dignity, they become easy to manipulate. They lose sight of their identity, and of their rights. It can have a dramatic effect on their psyche in very little time. It's almost certainly why she's so adamant she wasn't raped. He might not even have had to hold her down."

Elliot tries to process what Huang is suggesting. An image is emerging in his head, a terrible picture of his poor partner, crawling around in the dark for endless hours, beaten and hungry and cold. Starting to question what's real and what's not, her mind taking her to places that possibly don't exist, or making random connections to scenes from her past that have no bearing on the present, but which, somehow, make sense in the moment. He suddenly recalls how she called out for her mother in her sleep at the hospital. Did she start to hallucinate? Did images from her miserable childhood start to emerge, start to become real? Was sex with Gunther a welcome distraction from the hell her life had become? Was the opportunity to see light so exciting it was worth trading her body? Or was she so far gone he didn't even need to dangle such a reward? Was his warped ideology about her purpose in life enough to make her jump at the chance to be with him?

"It's not her fault," Huang adds softly, shaking him from the reverie.

Elliot looks up sharply. "I never said it was!"

"Oh, I know you would never blame her for this. What I meant was, the reason she's not snapping out of this is because she doesn't know how to. She senses this isn't how it's supposed to be, but she's still too vulnerable to understand what's real and what's not. She thinks all of this – her freedom, the way other people around her live – might all just be a giant cosmic test of her fortitude. She can't trust her own instincts."

Elliot is pensive for a moment. "After we got her, after the building collapsed, she was saying bizarre things, and I knew her fear was genuine, but I thought it was because she was so physically weak and depleted. She had a raging fever, she'd been assaulted, and… Oh God, I don't know. I thought once we got her to the hospital, she'd bounce back. And when she didn't, I just kept thinking maybe there was something wrong with _me, _like I'd totally misjudged who _she _was all these years, what made her tick."

"She's gonna come out of this, Elliot, you have to believe that."

"Do I?"

"Yes. With proper care, and counseling, she'll be able to recover."

"How long?"

Huang sighs. "It's going to take time. And patience."

A wave of anxiety washes over Elliot. "She doesn't have time."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, she refuses to eat."

Huang is visibly alarmed. "Anything?"

"Anything. He didn't just passively not feed her, Doc, he _put her on a fast_. He framed it that way, used those words, made it official. Now she's terrified he's watching, or-or, I don't know, he's gonna magically divine that she ate something. It's like he cast a spell or something, and her rescue didn't break it."

Huang clasps his hands together. "All right, here's what you do in the short term. You have to do whatever it takes, short of restraining her – and I emphasize that – to get her to eat. Even if you have to resort to telling her something ridiculous like this is what Gunther really wants, that he changed the rules. The immediate priority is to get some nourishment in her body before she does permanent damage to herself."

"Doc, I've been trying since she got out of the hospital. Honest to God, it's why I came here today. I'm worried sick about her."

Hung is adamant. "You've got to try harder. You've got to make her feel safe. You've got to show her that Gunther can't possibly know or see her, that the apartment isn't bugged, or however it is she's worried he might find out. Go to whatever elaborate extremes you need to, but don't mock her. At the end of the day, you have to make it clear this is something she needs to do and that nothing bad is going to happen to her if she does it."

"All right."

"And another thing," Huang continues. "This isn't anorexia. This isn't about controlling her body. Starving herself isn't a personal challenge, and arguments about her health or about how much weight she's lost will fall on deaf ears, because she isn't trying to lose weight, and she isn't trying to control her body. This is about one thing: rules, and the dire consequences of breaking them."

"Okay," he says. He is overwhelmed by the task before him but also relieved there is some sort of plan in place, endorsed by a professional whom he trusts. Reenergized, he gets up to leave, eager to get back to her.

"Good luck," Huang says.

As he's opening the front door, Elliot pauses in his tracks. "And in the long term?"

Huang looks at him quizzically. "The long term?"

"You told me what to do in the short term. But what can I do to help her in the long term?"

Huang nods. "You accept what's happened to her. You listen to her, on her own terms. You show her that she's entitled to all the things she was deprived of regardless of her behavior. You show her unconditional kindness. And you love her."


	19. Chapter 19

The whole drive home, Elliot rehearses in his head what he's going to say to convince Olivia to eat. He tries not to focus on the surrealism of such a task, that he actually has to talk a grown woman into keep herself alive. A part of him is curious as to what would happen if he simply ordered in her favorite food and ate it and enjoyed it in front of her. Would her hunger kick in and would she cave, or would she dig in her heels even more?

Olivia doesn't say a single word until a block away from her apartment, when she turns to Elliot and asks, with a hint of coquettishness, "So I guess this means you're staying with me indefinitely?" The implicit amusement in her voice unnerves him all over again. Does she really believe this is about him?

He brings the car to a halt in front of her building and puts it in park, then turns to her. "Look, Liv, let me level with you. I _want _to stay with you. I _want _to help you out, okay? I think you need some help, recovering." He looks into her eyes, searching. For some sign of comprehension, of reason. "Can you understand that? Can you appreciate that?"

Her expression clouds over; a moment ago, she had been in a good mood. "I think so," she says, but she doesn't meet his gaze.

Still, it's better than facing her anger, or, worse, her insistence that she be left alone. He reminds himself what dangerous ground he treads upon; if he pisses her off, she can make up her mind she wants to be alone, and, short of a court process to declare her incompetent – which, for the sake of her dignity if nothing else, he would like to avoid at all costs – there will be nothing much he can do about it.

"Great, Liv, okay, I'm glad." He starts to put the car back in drive, searching the street for a legal spot. As he makes to pull away, he glances back at her. She is so, so pale. "Are you feeling all right?" he asks.

"Of course."

All at once he's worried she won't be able to walk the distance from the spot he eventually finds back to her apartment. In his head, he doubles up on his vow to feed her. She can't go on like this. "Why don't you hop out here, and I'll go park. I'll meet you in the lobby." He's so afraid she'll faint he wants to accompany her on the elevator himself.

Luckily, she agrees without ceremony and exits the vehicle. He watches her walk languidly up the few steps to her building and disappear inside. He then circles her block, hunting for a parking space, his heart pounding.

Her utilitarian lobby is unfurnished and deserted and when he enters it, eight minutes later, he finds her sitting on the dusty floor, cross-legged like a kindergartner, staring into space listlessly.

"Liv?"

He approaches her cautiously, trying to assess her state of mind. "You all right?"

"I had to sit," she says, cryptically.

"Okay," he responds evenly. "Why don't we go up to your apartment, and you can sit down there? I'm sure your couch is a lot more comfortable than the floor."

She considers the request. "Okay."

When, a second later, she still hasn't mustered to get to her feet, Elliot crouches in front of her. "Are you able to stand?" he asks gently.

She stares at him blankly. He's unsure whether she doesn't know the answer, or doesn't want to admit she can't.

"Are you feeling weak, Liv?"

"I'm fine," she answers quickly, but he detects a flicker of guilt pass over her face.

He lets it go. His goal isn't to shame her. "Okay, you wanna get up, then, and we'll head up to your apartment?"

"Okay," she whispers, looking somewhat shell-shocked.

He reaches a hand out to her, beckoning her to take it. He tries to hoist her up, but she makes no effort to pull her own weight.

Again, he crouches in front of her and leans forward, his face level with hers. "C'mere." He takes both her hands and wraps them securely around his own neck. "Hold onto me." He wraps his own arms around her torso in a firm bear hug, and then slowly pulls her to her feet like a crane, her face sheltered against his chest. He maneuvers to his right, still holding onto her waist, and they make their way across the lobby.

As they shuffle towards the elevator, he notices she's favoring her left leg. "You all right?"

"Yes."

"Are you limping?"

"No."

But she is. And he's sure she wasn't before.

All at once, he understands. "Did you just faint, Liv?"

Her shoulders start to shake. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "I'm sorry, I tried, I tried, I'm sorry…"

His first instinct is to chastise her, lecture her about the urgency of getting some food in her, but he refrains. A sharp, intense sadness ripples through him. "Shh… shh… you don't have to apologize," he says quietly, "C'mon. Let's go upstairs."

x-x-x-x-x-x

He leads her straight to the couch as soon as they enter the apartment, depositing her there, and then heads to the fridge, from which he extracts a fresh turkey sandwich he bought at the deli earlier. He grabs a plate and starts to make his way to the coffee table, formalizing an impromptu strategy in his head as he does so. He lays the plate with the sandwich on the coffee table in front of her, and then pivots to face her, regarding her warily for a moment before speaking.

She stares ahead blankly as he wipes a lock of hair away from her face. He gapes at her, suddenly mute, taken aback by her pallor, her gauntness, but also by her beauty, which has not receded despite the ravages of the physical torment she's been made to endure. He keeps his palm poised on her forehead as he addresses her. "Liv?"

She glances, almost furtively, towards him.

"Sweetheart, can I ask you a question and will you promise you'll be honest with me?"

"Of course."

"When you were in the room, what would Gunther do to you if you broke the rules?"

Her shoulders slump, and tears twinkle in her eyes. "I don't…. I don't want to talk about it," she whispers.

"Do you believe he can still hurt you?"

She looks up at him with childlike innocence. "I don't want to break the rules, Elliot."

"Because he'll hurt you or because you believe the rules are good rules?"

"Both."

He swallows, gathering his thoughts. She's being responsive, lucid. He doesn't want to lose the moment. "Can we talk about that?"

"Okay."

"Well, what if you'd never met Gunther?"

This gets her attention; she is intrigued. "What do you mean?"

"A few weeks ago, you'd never heard of Gunther, right?"

"Right."

"And so you didn't know about him, about these rules, is that correct?"

"Yes."

"So what would you have done?"

She blinks, somewhat bewildered. "I guess I…. I guess I just would've gone on… doing… the wrong thing. Sinning."

"But you didn't know you were doing that. How could God blame you if you didn't even know?"

A lifetime of agnosticism has left her unfortified against such basic challenging, and she hesitates, trying to break the logic. He can sense the doubt in her voice when she responds. "That's why God made sure I met him." He senses it's a flimsy answer even to her own ears, but she's convinced it is surely true.

"But how many times did you put your life in danger, all those years? Were you always destined to survive, each and every one of those situations, all to satisfy a master plan for Gunther to eventually get ahold of you?"

Hesitantly, she answers, "I think so."

"What about Ruth?"

"Ruth?"

"The little girl who came into the precinct, who first told you about Gunther. What about her?"

He's troubled that she appears to have to actively search her memory for Ruth. Six days of standing by Amaro, and he'd heard the whole story. Of how attached Olivia had gotten to Ruth. Of how concerned she'd been over the child's welfare.

"Sh-she…. she led me to him," Olivia says, but her voice is riddled with confusion.

"Yes, she did."

"But… she wasn't real."

He blinks. "Ruth wasn't real?"

Olivia squints, as if concentrating on a particular memory. "Ruth needed help."

"Yes, Liv, she did. And you helped her."

But there's frustration in her eyes. "No, you don't understand."

"What don't I understand?"

"He knew."

"What?"

"H-he knew. Gunther knew."

"He knew what?"

"That I'm…"

"That you're what?"

She swallows, shame suddenly taking over her face. "Worthless."

Even after all this, she has managed to shock him. "Is that what he told you?"

"No, I… I told him." She pauses, furrows her brows. "I think."

"Did he make you say you were worthless?" Silently, his heart breaks. She's a grown woman who has not only been made to say these debasing words, but also, evidently, to _believe _them.

Her voice squeaks. "I said it because it was true."

His first instinct is to reject her statement with a vociferousness that would belie his incredulity that she could claim such a thing in the first place, to chide her vocally for her sheer ridiculousness.

But as he looks into her broken, haunted eyes, he sees how badly she's been hurt by her acceptance of her worthlessness, that it's become a core part of her identity. He recalls Huang's advice.

_Unconditional kindness. _

"No, honey," he says gently. "You're not worthless. How could you possibly think that?"

"Because it's true! She told him! She was there! She was… there?"

The cryptic sentence ends in a question. He cocks his head, disturbed less by her outburst than by the underlying confusion laced in her statements.

"Who was there, Liv? Ruth?"

She ignores the question, suddenly frantic. "She knew. She _said_ it!"

Patiently, he asks, "Who, Liv?"

But she's agitated now, intent on the narrative. "She was in the room!"

"Was Ruth locked in the room with you?" He's horrified by the implication. This utterly changes the story. They will have to re-interview the little girl.

Olivia is frustrated. "Ruth…. Ruth was in the room?"

Elliot swallows, realizing that he is treading on dangerous territory. She's still vulnerable to suggestion, and he has to take care not to inadvertently feed her false information that she may later repeat in a legal setting. "Liv, look at me."

Tentatively, she obeys.

"After you left the room with the children in it, did you ever see any of those kids again?"

She considers the question. "I don't think so."

He takes a steadying breath. _Patience, _he reminds himself. "Okay, good. So you said a moment ago that 'she' was in the room with you. Who did you mean, Liv?"

"She _was _there," she insists.

He's troubled by her inability to process a simple question. Something is wrong. "_Who _was, Liv?"

"My mother."

"Your mother?"

"She was in the room."

"The room where Gunther kept you?"

"Yes. I couldn't touch her, because my hands were tied behind my back." She explains this detail rather matter-of-factly.

He sighs, regarding her sadly. "Honey, your mother died over ten years ago. Don't you remember?"

"I-I… I was in the room…. Gunther must've been there… before she died?"

Again, her voice rises in a question, and he sees the confusion confound her. Suddenly, it dawns on him that her enigmatic statements are not all the result of complex brainwashing. Part of the irrationality, he realizes, is physiological. Her starvation has started to take a toll on the clarity of her thoughts.

"No, Liv. Your mother wasn't there. Only Gunther. This all happened last week."

"Only Gunther? But I…. I don't understand."

He pulls her close. "I need you to listen to me, Liv. You haven't eaten in days. You're confused because you're hungry. That's the reason Gunther put you on a fast. It wasn't to teach you anything, it was to confuse you, make you see things that weren't there. It was the only way to make you believe in him. Because he could see how strong you were. And so he knew the only way to weaken you, to make you believe what he told you, was to starve you. You have to eat, now, Liv, so that you can stop being confused."

Furtively, she eyes the food on his plate. It is a bare-bones turkey sandwich, but she looks at it lustfully, like it's a royal feast. Huang is right: this is not anorexia. She has an appetite; she feels hunger. She _wants _the food.

And so this is his chance. Under any other circumstance he would feel guilty about exploiting her moment of vulnerability, but such manipulation is necessary; it's literally, he thinks grimly, a matter of life and death.

He takes the sandwich in his hand, shows it to her. "Do you trust me, Liv?"

"You… you're my partner."

He takes that as a yes. "That's right, Liv. Do you trust that I would never do anything to hurt you?"

"Yes."

"And do you believe me when I tell you I would never force you to do anything against your will?"

"I do."

"Good. So I want you to listen to what I'm about to say, okay, but then I'm going to leave it to you to decide what you want to do. It's going to be your choice, okay? I'm not going to force you to do anything, but I want you to listen. Will you do that?"

"Okay."

"All people eat food, Liv. God designed the body that way. If we don't eat, we die. No God wants you to die. Do you understand?"

"I do understand. I know that."

"Okay, good. And do you understand that your body can't go much longer without food?"

She hesitates. "I-I…. I do understand. But…"

"What is it? Please, Liv, trust me. You can tell me anything."

Her eyes cloud over. "I'm scared."

"I know you are, honey. But I promise you, you'll be safe. Nobody's going to know. Nobody'll find out. But if you don't eat, you're going to die. And that _will _be against God. God won't forgive me, if I let you die. And _I _won't forgive me."

"I…I… "

He pulls her as close as he can, holds up the sandwich, brings it to her mouth. "I promise you, Liv, nothing bad will happen to you if you eat this. Gunther, he won't know."

He inches closer to her on the couch, their sides touching. He hopes the physical proximity helps ease her fears. "Take a bite, Liv. Go ahead. Take one bite, and I'll stay right here with you. I won't leave you, I promise."

He waits, letting her take as much time as she needs to process his words. Her chest rises and falls steadily, in measured, calculated breaths. He pictures her counting to three in her head, consolidating her resolve, steeling herself for the frightening task ahead of her.

When she's finally ready, she looks him straight in the eye, and, with a slight nod of the head, reaches for the sandwich.

x-x-x-x-x-x

They have, together, finished half of the sandwich when a knock at the door causes him to look up sharply. Olivia, however, jumps out of her skin.

Elliot looks at Olivia, who promptly spits out her most recent bite of food and looks up, cat-who-ate-the-canary guilty. He frowns, deeply annoyed by the intrusion. Just when they'd been making progress.

"It's okay," he says soothingly. "It's okay, let me see who it is."

Despite his reassurance, she scurries from her seat and runs behind the couch, crouching, holding onto its back for dear life.

"Who is it?" Elliot calls, keeping an eye trained on Olivia.

"It's Nick!"

He wishes Amaro would've called first. This is no time for an impromptu visit.

Elliot turns to Olivia. "Do you want me to let Amaro in?"

She doesn't answer, seemingly paralyzed in fear.

"Hang on a second!" Elliot calls. He approaches Olivia slowly, palms unthreateningly in the air, not wanting to scare her further.

"Liv?"

She is breathing heavily. He tries to break the spell of fear. "Honey, look at me."

Several seconds pass, and, tentatively, she meets his gaze.

"You remember Amaro?"

She takes a second – a full second – to think. "My new partner," she whispers.

"Right, right. You talked to him the other day at the station. Do you like him?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah? What kind of guy is he?"

She thinks about it. "He-he's like you."

He manages a lighthearted chuckle. "Yeah? In what way?"

"He's a good father."

It's not quite the answer he expected, but he'll take it. "All right, well that's good to hear. So he's a nice guy, right?"

"Right."

"And do you trust him, Liv?"

"I do."

"Good. Okay. And do you trust me?"

"You know I do."

"All right, that's good. So do you want me to let him in? If you don't, I can tell him to go away."

She stands there, looking at him blankly.

"Listen to me, Liv. This is _your_ apartment. _You_ get to decide who comes in here. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I understand," she answers robotically.

"So if you don't want to see him, you don't need a reason, okay? You just say the word and I'll tell him to go away."

She nods. "Okay."

"Okay? So do you want him to come in or to go?"

She starts to visibly tremble, looks around at the walls as if they, too, have doors behind which strangers are waiting to be let in.

All at once, Elliot understands. "Hey, hey, listen to me. Are you maybe afraid it's really Gunther behind that door, that this is some kind of trick?"

She stiffens at the mention of her captor's name, her eyes immediately flitting to the half-eaten sandwich on the coffee table. Damning, irrefutable evidence of her transgression. Elliot watches as conflicting emotions, thoughts, fight for supremacy inside her head. Her brainwashed mind is telling her she's supposed to _want _to see Gunther, and that any admission otherwise might earn her punishment. But gut-level fear of what Gunther might do to her is paramount. He approaches her frozen, statue-like form, and pulls her into a bearlike embrace. His arms encircle her completely. "I've got you," he whispers. "Nobody's gonna hurt you. Nobody's gonna punish you."

Seconds tick by, and, gradually, she relaxes in his arms.

He starts to release her. Then he cocks his head, winks at her, and gently grasps her elbow, pulling her towards the front door. "C'mere," he says, "I want to show you something. I promise I won't open it."

He leads her to the door, and points at the peephole. "Go ahead, take a look."

She does as he asks.

"Who do you see?" he asks her.

"I see Nick."

"Right. And do you believe it's really him?"

Instantly, she turns red. Ultimately she is a grown adult, and there is still a part of her mind that is rational, telling her how ridiculous it is to believe her eyes are capable of such deceit. "I-I-I… of course I do," she stammers.

He knows she's only telling him what he wants to hear. He bends his knees to her level, looks her in the eye, gets her to hold his gaze. "You said you trusted me, right Liv?"

"Right."

"Okay, so I'm giving you my word: it _is_ Nick at the door, okay? This isn't a trick. I promise."

Olivia closes her eyes and stands perfectly still, her hands by her side, clenched into light fists. Elliot watches, as she tries to find her center, tries to tame warring factions inside her head.

Thirty seconds pass before she finally reopens her eyes. The dramatic transformation Elliot had hoped for is not fully evident; visceral fear still monopolizes her face, and her body still trembles perceptibly.

But her voice is clear. "Okay. Open the door."


End file.
